


Policy of Truth

by NeverwinterThistle



Series: Policy of Truth [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kink Meme, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Oral Sex, Undercover Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I need a lot of things. Answers; a chance to forget; for the world to stop sucking so much. I’m not really used to actually getting any of that.” Isaac sips his whiskey again. It’s good enough that he wants to close his eyes. He doesn’t. He’s a lot of things, but he sure as hell isn’t suicidal. “So, you want stories, how about you start by giving me something to call you?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> <i>“Why?” the stranger asks easily. “You want a name for when you think about me later tonight?”</i></p><p>The Survivor meets a man in a bar; a few days later, he meets Deacon. It's possible his observation skills could use a little work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ongoing kink meme fill for [this prompt](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=16575431#t16575431).

If there’s one thing to be said for The Third Rail (and there’s a lot he could say, in various biting tones, but most of it would get him forcibly ejected, so), it’s that the barkeep is at least somewhat honest about his liquor.

“You want my recommendation? What, the three metal eyes didn’t clue you in at all? I’m a robot, you insensitive bastard, the only thing I guzzle is motor oil. Try the lager; I’m told it tastes like Brahmin piss.”

_Not a bad description_ , Isaac reflects, lifting the bottle up to the dim bar light. He couldn’t help but notice the cap coming off too easy when it was twisted. So, watered down, maybe. Or, as seems more likely given what he knows about the guy who owns the place, probably strengthened with something he’d lose sleep over, if he was stupid enough to ask.

He sips it. Swallows slow, staring at the wall on the other side of the bar as he schools his face blank.

Brahmin piss, huh. Might just be.

“Word of advice from a guy who knows.” And someone is pulling up the stool on his other side, settling down just a little too close for comfort. “You’re gonna regret that. And I’m not talking, ‘dancing on tables and waking up the next morning naked with an interesting new case of ghoul-transferred venereal disease and no caps left on you’ regret. That at least makes for a good story. Nah, this is just plain old ‘wake up and wish you were dead’ regret.”

“Sounds familiar,” Isaac says. He throws a sidelong look at the new guy; close-cropped reddish hair, blue eyes that size him up too sharp for comfort. Nice leather jacket, though, and the shirt underneath is casually unbuttoned past his clavicle. Suits him. That’s probably the point. “My average day tends to start with me waking up to discover that the world is still just as terrible as it was yesterday. A hangover would really add to the wasteland experience.”

He takes another sip just to spite the stranger. The man watches him for a few pitying seconds, then gestures to Whitechapel Charlie.

“Look, I tried to sit back and let the train wreck happen, but I’m not enough of a sadist to pull it off. Get him a whiskey, for fuck’s sake. On me. The stuff you don’t actually show on the menu, yeah?”

“You don’t have to-“ Isaac begins, and the stranger throws him a wry smile.

“Chill, buddy. You look like you need it right about now. I’ve got some caps spare after my last job, and this, like, _burning_ need for conversation with someone who’s got more than two brain cells to rub together. Call it a bribe, if you will.”

Isaac turns his head slowly, letting the guy get a good look at both sides of his face. The good side, and the other one.

The stranger doesn’t flinch. That would have said a lot, once upon a time. These days it’s business as usual.

“A bribe for what, exactly?” Isaac accepts the whiskey Charlie hands him (served in an actual glass, and his eyebrows shoot up at the sight).

“Humour me,” the stranger says. “Half an hour or so of talking, that’s all. Tell me your story. Or…tell me _a_ story. Honesty is completely optional in my line of work, so I won’t hold it against you if you wanna polish the truth up a little.” He lifts his whiskey, offering a toast.

Isaac considers it for a moment. Looks the guy up and down. Larger guns get checked in with Ham at the door, but his jacket falls uneven on the left, so he’s carrying. Boots are tall enough to hide a good variety of knives; the ammo pouch on his hip might be exactly what it looks like, but a resourceful guy could certainly fit a grenade in there. Sleeves are long enough to cover his forearms and wrists, but he has strong hands. No scarring, all fingers present. Possibly a local mobster. Maybe one of Mayor Hancock’s people.

Not a safe man, by any stretch of the imagination. But after the day he’s had, _safe_ is the last kind of company Isaac finds himself wanting. Call it a flaw in his otherwise sterling personality.

He’s always been a sucker for guys with nice hands.

“Sure,” he says, lifting his glass to toast his new friend. “You want half an hour of fairy tales, I can hook you up.”

“Awesome.”

The whiskey burns familiar, lingering on his tongue. It’s actually decent stuff; he raises his eyebrows at the other man, and gets a shrug in return.

“Like I said: you look like you need it.”

“I need a lot of things. Answers; a chance to forget; for the world to stop sucking so much. I’m not really used to actually getting any of that.” Isaac sips his whiskey again. It’s good enough that he wants to close his eyes. He doesn’t. He’s a lot of things, but he sure as hell isn’t suicidal. “So, you want stories, how about you start by giving me something to call you?”

“Why?” the stranger asks easily. “You want a name for when you think about me later tonight?” The innuendo slides out silkily, not too forced, not too coarse. Playful enough to brush off, if it’s unwelcome.

Isaac lets his lips twitch into a smile. Some things never change, it seems. “Could do.”

“Pick whatever you want,” the stranger says. “I’m a simple man, I won’t fuss. Call me whatever suits you.”

_You were doing so good up until then,_ Isaac thinks, setting his whiskey down gently. “Alright then,” he says in a friendly tone. “What’s that thing they call corpses when they can’t find who they belong to? Right. John Doe. How’s that work for you?”

The stranger has the good sense to wince. “Subtle. Well, I guess that’s fair; not a big fan of mysteries myself. Tell you what, call me ‘D’.”

“Dee?”

“As in, the letter. What, you want me to sing you the alphabet song until we get there? Could do that, but Magnolia might want to know why I think I can do her job better than she can.”

So. A liar, but a charming one. Isaac amends his initial assumption; not a gangster. Hancock’s private security seems most likely, but conman is also possible. They’re going to run into problems if it’s the latter. He won’t have issues killing this man; disposing of the body is a different matter. He’s too new to Goodneighbor to be sure of who the go-to guys are.

Plus, he’d really rather not. So he’s inclined to go easy on a stranger with strong hands and an easy smile; so sue him. The way his day’s gone, he’s earnt himself some leeway.

“Not going to ask me what my name is?” he asks.

‘D’ gives him another smile. Overly familiar, like they’ve been friends for years. His eyes don’t soften quite enough to pull it off. “I could,” he agrees. “Would it surprise you to hear that I already know it?”

“I know how small towns work.”

“Ain’t they just swell? A stranger rides in on a white horse, tongues are gonna start wagging. Speaking of which-”

“I left the horse tied up outside,” Isaac says. “She’s guarding my gear. Better tell people to watch themselves, she’s got teeth on her like a Deathclaw. Likes going for people’s soft bits when they piss her off. We have that in common.”

“Handsome _and_ a nasty sense of humour? Nice. Actually, I was going to ask about that dog of yours. What, did he take one look at the Rail and run for cover? Smart puppy.”

“You’ve been watching me.” Isaac swirls his whiskey in the glass, one-handed. Instinct has him turning slightly to face the other man; gives him a better angle if he needs it. No one likes a faceful of liquor, and all he needs is a second to draw his closest weapon. _If_ he needs to. “Dogmeat’s upstairs with Ham. It seemed…poetic. Plus, no pets allowed; apparently Magnolia has allergies.”

“Jesus, really?” D shakes his head. “No pets, no large guns, no synths. Why not just nail up a giant sign that says _NO FUN ALLOWED_ and get it over with?”

“Beats me.”

“You’re right though. I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you arrived yesterday. Hope that’s not too creepy. My, uh, employers, they’re paranoid sons of bitches.”

“Paranoia in the wasteland? Now that’s just unreasonable.”

D laughs, warm and relaxed, and Isaac convinces himself to just sip his whiskey and put it back down. He’s self-aware enough to recognize that he’s letting his companion win him over. That might not be a good idea. Might be the last bad idea he ever has, come to that. This man makes his insides itch. He’s dangerous.

But he’s seen enough of the world to know that even dangerous men need nights off in bars, to wash the blood away with whiskey. He’s no exception himself. The _Old World_ military gave its soldiers liquor rations for a reason.

“Saw you go into The Memory Den this afternoon,” D says in a conversational tone, and Isaac stills. “Most visitors do. It’s all part of the quintessential Goodneighbor tourist experience! Shop at KL-E-O’s, spend a night sleeping in the gutter with the local drifter community, get yourself extorted down an alleyway, visit the Memory Den. And top it all off with a memorable speech from the dashing Mayor Hancock; for two hundred caps extra, he’ll tack on a P.S. where he welcomes you by name! Pretty sweet deal, right?”

“I’ll pass.” Isaac takes a larger gulp of his whiskey. “Wish I’d passed on The Memory Den, actually. Do people seriously go there on the regular?”

D shrugs. “Can’t say I ever have. What, you didn’t like what Irma had to show you? Aw, that’s such a shame. She’s usually so good at digging up everyone’s favourite memories! Tenth birthday parties and things. You know, back when your parents were still alive and you hadn’t yet watched your boyfriend get dragged off screaming by raiders.”

“Sure you’ve never been there?”

“Who knows? Maybe I just erased it from memory. Ain’t nobody needs to relive that time when they were kids and Tommy C. held their head under water in a Brahmin trough. Urgh.”

“I bet.” Isaac feels himself smiling, despite himself. This guy has a way with words, and a voice smooth enough to make listening a pleasure. He gestures a lot; leans his elbows on the bar and shows off his wide shoulders. A practiced flirt. Still, he seems to be having fun with it. That makes a difference.

“The memories didn’t go so well for you, then?” D asks.

_Whatever_ , Isaac thinks, resigned. There’s no harm in talking it out. The only people who could possibly use it against him already know. “Saw something from the past. Family stuff. Murder, kidnapping; just your average Thanksgiving dinner in my household. But…shit. I could have done without the reminder.” He stares down at what’s left of his whiskey. Talking about it is a bitter thing, but he feels a little more at ease once it’s said. Like draining poison from a snake bite. Once it’s out, it stings less. He feels abruptly better.

At his side, D sighs. “ _To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub_ ,” he says. “You want some advice? Don’t go back. That place’ll rot your soul if you let it. There’s better ways to spend a few hours that won’t leave you feeling like you just got mind-fucked with peanut butter for lube.”

“Wasn’t planning on going back,” Isaac says. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve been told Diamond City is where I can find what I’m looking for.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” D offers him a winning smile. “Caps? Company? Mormonism?”

“A detective. Got someone that was taken from me, a little while back. I won’t be able to settle until I find out what happened to them. Good news, or bad.”

“Well,” D says, “from what I’ve seen of you so far, I pity the fools who did the stealing. Regular one-man army, you are.”

“I’d ask you when _exactly_ you started following me, but I have a feeling you’re not going to say.” Isaac doesn’t bother reaching for a weapon. He downs the rest of his whiskey, setting the glass aside, and resigns himself to the fact that he’s not going to kill his companion. He just…doesn’t really want to. It’d be so pointless.

The _danger_ itch in his spine has melted, turned into something a little more friendly. The roughest thing he wants to do to this guy is likely to leave them both feeling pretty good about life in general. He shifts in his seat, and his knee comes into contact with the other man’s. D doesn’t move away.

“Not long. Just long enough.”

“For what?” Isaac presses with his knee, and feels the other man press back.

D leans in a little. “Long enough to appreciate how seriously hot you look with a gun in your hands and a pile of dead muties at your feet,” he murmurs. “Gotta love a guy who wears radioactive blood splatter like war paint. _Mm_.”

“Sorry I washed it off,” Isaac tells him, mock serious. “Next time I won’t bother. Bet Diamond City’ll be just over the moon to let in a guy who looks like he bathes in gore every morning.” He hesitates, but it’s momentary. His mind’s already made up.

He waves at Whitechapel Charlie. “Same again for both of us. This round’s on me.”

“Suit yourselves,” Charlie snaps, grabbing their empty glasses off the bar. “And might I suggest if you’re planning to shag each other silly, you take it to the VIP lounge?”

“Uh,” Isaac says, startled for the first time that evening. “I didn’t realize that was an option.”

At his side, D gives one of his infectious laughs. Leans in close and whispers, “I’m a member here. Comes with all kinds of perks- remind me to show you the secret ninja dojo in the basement some day.” He lingers for longer than he needs to; his lips brush the skin under Isaac’s ear, and then he pulls away. Turns to the barkeep.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says, saluting clumsily. “We’ll just get out of your hair. Not that you have any. Sorry, man, it just slipped out, no offense meant. We’re cool, right?”

Whiskeys in hand, they leave Charlie to seethe behind the bar. D drapes a casual arm around Isaac’s waist as they walk; he allows it. Lets himself be led to the empty side room, warm in gold lamplight and red upholstery. The door swings closed behind them.

He hears the lock click, but only because he’s listening for it.

It’d be a good time to mount an attack, if his new friend was feeling less than friendly. Instead, D gestures to the couch.

“We have ourselves about an hour of peace and quiet,” he says. “Might as well get comfortable.”

“Is this part of the _Goodneighbor tourist experience_?” Isaac takes a seat, one arm resting over the back of the couch. D settles in next to him, so close he’s practically sitting in Isaac’s lap.

“Only for the ones that make a really good impression,” D says. “Mayor Hancock sends his regards and thanks you for clearing up those muties that kept munching on our visitors. Though if you ask him about this, he’ll just deny it, so don’t bother. And anyway, I volunteered.”

“For what?”

“Now that _is_ the question.”

He tastes of whiskey, smooth and warm. Skin smells of smoke in three different ways; cigarettes and Goodneighbor’s wood fires and the danger-spice of gunpowder on his inner wrists. His lips part easy, and he kisses with an addictive sort of hunger.

_Nice,_ Isaac thinks. Captivated in spite of himself. _Yeah, okay then._ He wraps an arm around D’s waist and drags the other man into his lap.

They don’t _fuck_ in the most literal sense of the word, and the cute little courtship dance outside didn’t last near long enough for any kind of trust to build - the clothes stay on. Zippers get yanked down, open-mouthed kisses smearing saliva across their lips while they fumble with each other’s pants. Sizing each other up ( _it’s not a competition- except that it so is, and god does he love winning things_ ). The haste makes him almost nostalgic. He thinks of fumbles on military bases, frotting up against walls, bringing a lover to begging with a mouth on his cock.

D is gentler than his usual partners, but there’s no shyness in him. He thumbs the tip of Isaac’s cock, twisting his hand on the end of every stroke, putting those lovely fingers of his to use. Breathing hard into Isaac’s neck.

Isaac tilts his head back to avoid a faceful of hair. And then changes his mind; he’s weak for redheads, and who can blame him? He grabs D’s wrist to stop him.

“Let me suck you off,” he says, and it’s more of an order than a request. D’s eyes widen in a truly satisfying way.

“Well, sure, I mean,” D stops to clear his throat. It’s the first break in confidence Isaac’s seen from him so far, and he’s immediately hungry for more. “If you’re gonna _insist_ , then I guess I could oblige you. But I’m absolutely doing you a favour here.”

“Sure you are.” He kneels between the other man’s legs, stroking up well-muscled thighs, briefly regretful that the pants stayed on. But regret isn’t something he’s ever had much time for. Definitely not with a man’s fingers in his hair and a nice-sized cock practically begging for him. He stops, an inch away. Breathes gentle on the tip of D’s shaft, then grins up at him.

“Tell Mayor Hancock I’m happy to be of service any time he needs.”

D has the nerve to give his thigh a gentle kick. “Sadist,” he accuses. “Here I am, doing my bit as a loyal citizen of Goodneighbor, ‘of the people, for the piñata’, and you’re totally taking advantage of me. I’m a good person! I pay taxes, like, all the time! I’m- _oh_ god.”

He shudders, and Isaac thinks, _huh. Been a while for you too._ He tastes salt on his tongue, drips of pre-come that he swallows down with no small amount of satisfaction. Sucks gently on the tip of the other man’s cock, while the hands in his hair grip tight and painful. Yeah, he’s missed this. Missed being able to drive a guy wilder, the deeper he goes.

Turns out men haven’t changed all that much in two hundred years. He swallows D down to the base, burying his nose in red-tinged curls. Ignores the nails digging into the scalp. He really does like the other man’s voice, he decides. Especially all low and ragged, cursing up a storm. Sign of a job well done.

“Oh sure, you look…smug _now_ ,” D tells him. “Oh my god, _yes, fuck_. You wait. I’m- I’m going to get you right back, I promise. You _wait_.”

Isaac raises his eyebrows, long enough to get his skepticism across. _You’re welcome to try._ Then he slides almost free of D’s cock, pausing to tease the tip with his tongue. Tastes salt again. He closes his eyes and hums satisfaction, and his scalp is going to be raw tomorrow; he’s looking forward to it. He finds himself wanting to linger, drag it out for the simple pleasure of a little longer with those lovely strong hands cradling his head. It’s a shame they only have tonight. He’s nowhere near finished playing with this man.

He brings D off a few minutes later, swallowing hard as he comes, memorizing the moan he utterly fails to smother. Eases back and wipes his mouth with his fingers, pointedly licking them clean when he’s done.

“I’d kill a man to see you naked,” he says matter-of-factly, and means it.

D throws him an incredulous look, then tugs on his hair again. “Okay, that’s… _hot_ , but as a civil servant I really can’t condone it. C’mere. I’m gonna make you see _stars_. And rainbows and unicorns and Deathclaws skipping merrily across the horizon. See, you think I’m kidding, but I am absolutely not. Cross my heart.”

D tugs him up onto the couch by his hair. Kneels between his legs; his blue eyes have softened, glazed up with lust. Suits him. Isaac leans back into the couch, folding his hands behind his head and thinking, _I’ll be coming back here, and soon_. _I’m not done with you._

He leaves for Diamond City in the morning, with a spring to his step and a farewell hickey on his collarbone. Dogmeat trots at his side; the good mood must be infectious. Or maybe he just liked Goodneighbor.

It’s as good a reason as any to plan another visit.


	2. Chapter 2

“Follow the Freedom Trail,” says a guard at the gates to Diamond City. “I hear it’s a sure-fire way to track down the Railroad.” She gives him a significant look.

The capital letters are irritably audible; Isaac considers brushing the woman off. He is, after all, here on business. No time for hunting down local legends and boogeymen under beds unless it’ll get him closer to his goal. Or pay him. He’s flexible on occasion.

Isaac closes his eyes.

 _No_ , he thinks. _No, goddammit, I’m not here to fuck around with codes and puzzles and mysteries._ He thinks it while reaching into a pocket of his Vault suit, digging out a small notebook and stub of pencil. Opens his eyes and adds a note to the page headed up with ‘ _Railroad’_. He’s running out of space. The ‘hints’ have been dropping thick and fast these last few days.

Dogmeat has the nerve to whine as they turn their backs on the city without entering. Isaac can’t really blame him.

“We’ll be back,” he says. “Soon. But there’s a secret synth-rescuing society lurking somewhere nearby, and they actually think they can jerk me around until they decide I get to know about them. Mission parameters just changed, boy. I need to have a word with these people.”

 _Amateur hour_ , he thinks, two days and a dozen dismembered ghouls later, staring up at the metal code wheel embedded in brick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, in this ungodly church basement. He doesn’t know what’s on the other side of the poorly concealed secret door, and he doesn’t know if he cares enough to find out. He could just walk away. Diamond City is right where he left it. And somewhere inside, there just might be a scarred man that needs killing.

Alternatively, Goodneighbor is a short detour on the way, and there’s a stranger he’s been thinking about a lot since he left. A red-haired man with strong hands and a ready smile, who might be willing to sit back and sympathize over a rant about ten different reasons why entering Swan’s Pond was a bad idea.

Thing is, though, he really does hate mysteries.

Isaac spells out the required code phrase and stands back as the bricks part like sea before him.

He’s met with three rather dangerous-looking people, guns aimed unwavering in his direction. This too, was predictable. He shifts on his feet, the grenade in his pocket pressing against his hip. It’d be a shame to use it: he probably wouldn’t survive. But needs must, and if he’s going down then so is everyone else in the room with him. He’s suddenly very glad he left Dogmeat back upstairs.

“Who the hell are you?” asks the woman in the middle. The boss, from the way she talks and the others listen. She’s the only one without a weapon aimed at his face. He wants to ask her what the fuck kind of dramatics she thinks she’s pulling. If she really believes it’s worth the risk, greeting a total stranger like this. He wants to roll his eyes and walk away already. Puzzle solved.

“Pizza delivery,” he says instead. “Got an order for a, uh, ‘Railroad’? Two large pepperoni, one quattro stagioni, one margherita, and…one Hawaiian with double pineapple. What is _wrong_ with you people? _._ ”

“Oh no,” says the woman on the left; silver hair, large gun, eyes like unforgiving glass. “Not another attitude problem, no way. Please just let me kill him. I’ll make it fast, I’ll even take care of the body for you-”

“Hey, you’re having a party! What gives with my invitation?” The newcomer is quiet on his feet, and Isaac twitches at the appearance. Didn’t hear the guy approaching. So either he’s getting seriously sloppy, or the situation is now officially out of control.

“Deacon,” the leader says. “What can you tell me about our guest?”

‘Deacon’ looks him up and down through impenetrable sunglasses, and Isaac has the distinct feeling of being stripped bare, layer by layer. His skin itches. “Absolutely nothing,” the other man drawls. “But how many people even make it down here? There’s like, traps or something? Ghouls? Maybe? I don’t know, I kind of nap my way through most of your security talks, Dez.”

“What,” Isaac says, matching his playful tone. “Normal people can’t follow that incredibly obvious bright red line that leads directly to your front door? And the chalk directions on pretty much every wall in the church? Are you counting on them getting to your decoder ring and not being able to spell ‘Railroad’?”

“You’d be surprised,” Deacon tells him. “People these days can handle either the ghouls or the spelling, but both tends to strain their poor little brains. Next thing you know their heads explode. Bam! Brain jelly all over the goddamn carpet, and who gets to clean it up? Sure as hell won’t be Glory.”

“Can we get back on topic please?” says the leader, Dez. “You’ve got nothing on this guy.”

Deacon shrugs. “What I _got_ is a real good feeling about him. He blasts ghouls, solves puzzles, shows up with pizza- this guy’s got serious style. And handsome, too. Sort of.”

“Stop,” Isaac says. “You’re making me blush.” He scuffs a foot in the ground, playing it up; uses the motion to reassure himself that the knife in his left boot is still within easy reach. Wouldn’t be his first choice of weapon, but he likes giving himself options. It’s the reason he’s managed to live to thirty.

“Put him on probation,” Dez orders before Deacon can flirt back, as he was no doubt going to. Shame. “He’s your problem now. Take him out into the field, test his skills. See if we can use him.”

Isaac gives her a humorless smile. _Use him, huh_. Well, no harm getting acquainted with the various big players in the wasteland before he picks a side to back. The Railroad doesn’t exactly scream ‘power’ to him, but in this new world, he’s not too sure what does.

Plus, he likes their spy already. That’s a good sign.

The heavies with guns turn and leave on Dez’s command, and it’s all so abrupt he wants to throw a few rocks at their backs. Make them aware of how poorly they just handled their little standoff. Four on one, and a grenade right now would end the lot of them, if he was feeling particularly destructive-

His eyes drift to Deacon, standing abruptly closer than before, pleasant smile still in place.

“What’s up,” Deacon says. “Just so you know, me vouching for you is pretty much the only reason you’re not brain jelly on the walls right now. So I guess it’d be cool if you didn’t go do something to prove me wrong.”

“Who, me?” Isaac raises his eyebrows. “I’m harmless. Honestly, the ghouls outside were dead like that when I found them.” He takes the other man in, head to toes. Faded white shirt, the ugliest jeans this side of hell and unlaced shoes to go with them. Five o’clock shadow, obvious wig. _Scruffy,_ he pretty much screams. _Unreliable_.

 _Pick a looser shirt if you want to pull that off,_ Isaac thinks. Underneath, the body is solid muscle. The shoelaces are hacked off short enough that tripping isn’t a risk. Those sunglasses hide everything except what Deacon wants to show; when he moves, he’s almost soundless.

“The name’s Isaac,” he says. “Good to meet you. I doubt you do handshakes, so I won’t bother offering.”

Deacon grins at him. “See, I knew you were a smart one. Ten minutes here and I already like you more than everyone else put together.”

 _I want to map out every inch of you. Preferably with my tongue_. The feeling is a gut-punch, abrupt enough to hurt. Something in the way Deacon stands, the careless attitude he projects, the way the man moves without appearing to budge in the slightest. He’s not sure what prompts it. He’s almost positive none of it shows on his face, but given what he’s seen of Deacon so far, that might not matter.

Complications. Why can’t anything in this world just be simple?

“So this job we’re doing,” he says, trying to pull himself back together. “What is it?”

Deacon makes a vague gesture. “You know. Underground secret society things. We’ll follow some code signs, check a dead drop or two, meet an informant, stop for martinis by the river; trust me, you’re gonna have a blast.”

“Uh-huh. Enemies?”

“ _So_ many.”

“Not even going to tell me where we’re going?” Isaac says wryly. “Guess I’ll work it out eventually. And just so you know, once we’re done with your thing, I got business of my own I need to take care of. Up to you if you want to come with. I’ll be headed to Diamond City. Via Goodneighbor.” He tacks the last part on as an afterthought, but it seems like a better idea the more he considers it.

Last thing he needs right now is tension between him and a guy he’s working with. If he can scratch the itch with Hancock’s friendly red-haired employee, all the better.

“Goodneighbor, huh?” Deacon says. “Sure, I can do that. Railroad’s got a lot of informants down that way; the Mayor’s…not a friend, exactly, but he’s cool with us spreading the word, and he keeps the bigots out. And we can say hello to my old buddy KL-E-O! Believe it or not, we were real close a few years back. There was talk of marriage, all that. But she decided she couldn’t deal with my thing about leaving towels all over the bathroom floor; kicked me out. But I’m pretty sure it should be safe to go back by now.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Isaac says. “I spent a good half hour arguing missile launcher upgrades with her, then bought out her fusion cells. We’re at the stage where she’s giving me bulk discounts.”

Deacon grins at him. “Always wanted my very own bullet sponge buddy. You distract the bad guys, I sneak past and rob them all blind. And, you know, complete the mission objective so Dez doesn’t chew me out for getting sidetracked by sparkly objects. Again.”

 _It’s his voice,_ Isaac thinks, as Deacon leads the way back down the no longer ghoul-infested tunnel, and he does his best not to let his eyes drop below shoulder level. _Has to be. Or the confidence. The sunglasses?_ He’s hyperaware of every noise he makes, trekking through the ankle-high sludge. Deacon doesn’t seem to have that issue; the man moves like a ghost. If not for the constant chatter, he could easily vanish around the next corner.

“We made it out alive!” Deacon says as they reach the church again. “I love it when that happens. Hey, Dogmeat! Who’s a good boy? Did your boss leave you out here while he ran off to play with ghouls? Now that’s just mean.”

“I saw an obvious deathtrap,” Isaac says as Dogmeat jumps all over his new companion. “Figured this guy didn’t deserve to suffer just ‘cause I don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

Deacon looks at him over kneeling to ruffle Dogmeat’s ears. “So you _do_ have a heart,” he says. “I was hoping.”

Isaac finds himself briefly stunned silent. And Deacon…doesn’t push. He goes back to fussing over Dogmeat, who seems to treat any and all attention as potentially the last he’ll ever receive. Fickle dog loves new people; it’s a mystery as to why he hasn’t run off with someone else yet. He definitely likes Deacon, who’s already found the best way to scratch his ears. Impressive. It took Isaac days to get it right.

He clears his throat. “Heartless, huh. Pretty big assumption to make about a guy you met ten minutes ago.”

“Did I say heartless? That would be wrong and completely unjustified of me. I mean, you’re just full of laughter and joy and…kittens, maybe. Dogmeat is clearly the one responsible for that pile of dismembered ghouls.” Deacon jerks his head towards the pile in question.

“He is,” Isaac agrees. “He likes to play fetch.”

If not for the sunglasses, he imagines Deacon might be giving him a horrified look. “That puts a whole new spin on tug of war,” the other man says. “Jesus. I did not need those mental images. Dogmeat, you disgust me. See how many belly rubs _you_ get for Christmas. Spoiler warning: we’re talking single digits here, boy.”

“That’ll teach him.”

Deacon stands, dusting his knees off, as if it makes any difference. “Speaking of teaching. Time you learned a little bit about how we work around here. Honestly, I’m the best person you could have been assigned to. We used to just give the newbies to Glory. The casualty rate was pretty astounding.”

As orientations go, Isaac’s had worse. He lets himself be led out into the wasteland; doesn’t blink when Deacon tells him to make his own way to a pre-approved location, and doesn’t roll his eyes when he gets there and finds his ‘teacher’ already waiting, disguised. Patched, scruffy coat; battered hat; scavver snarl. Someone should tell the guy that his sunglasses give him away. For the moment, though, Isaac makes himself play nice.

It’s easier than it should be.

He tells himself it’s because he wants to stay on the Railroad’s good side; who better to help him out on a shady missing person hunt than a shady underground organisation? He tells himself it makes sense: the code words, white paint symbols, puzzles, self-enforced secrecy, all of it comes as easy as breathing to a pre-war soldier. Just another day at work. And if orientations are anything to go by, the work will be plenty entertaining.

He guns down twenty-three robots; when they get back to base, Deacon swears it was over a hundred.

“ _And_ he did it while carrying me over his shoulder, ‘cause I missed a step while we were heading in through the secret tunnel? Sprained my ankle. No, I don’t need Carrington to look at it, the man’s a total hack! What I’m _saying_ is that this guy is wasted as a tourist. Make him a full member, Dez. He’s good. And he totally didn’t grab my ass while carrying me around, so bonus points for that. Back me up on this, pal, come on.”

“Uh,” Isaac says. “Yeah. Sure. That’s pretty much how it happened, except that Deacon’s estimate of how many robots- I mean _synths_ , is a little low. I counted one fifty, maybe two hundred? It was rough going. All the screaming.”

“From the synths?” Desdemona’s eyebrows shoot up, and Isaac offers her a winning smile.

“Nah, from Deacon.”

“I did a lot of screaming,” Deacon agrees. “In my defense, it was pretty goddamn scary. I’m gonna need so much therapy. That’s covered in my employment contract, right? Healthcare, dental, therapy? You know I never read the small print.”

Desdemona ignores him. She turns to Isaac instead, extending a hand. “Well, I’ll admit, I had my reservations. But seeing as you and Deacon just took care of a mission I expected would require at least two more heavies and considerable risk, I think you’ve proven yourself capable. You’ll need a code name, of course.”

“Give him something _mean_ ,” Deacon says. “Something that’ll strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. Like…Crusher. Or Slayer. Or Hal.”

“I could go for Hal,” Isaac says.

“If you can’t be serious about this, I’ll choose your name myself,” Desdemona snaps. “Deacon, your input is, as ever, unproductive. And _you_ , stop encouraging him. He’s bad enough already.”

“Actually, I think he’s pretty great.” Isaac throws Deacon a grin; gets one in return. “You need a code name? Fine. Just…call me Survivor.”

The Railroad lets him in; it’ll either be the best or worst decision they’ve ever made. Depends on how the Brotherhood of Steel shapes up. Whether or not the Minutemen interest him. Hell, he’s got half an eye on the Institute already, because an organisation that wields combat-programmed robots in this day and age is at least worth considering. But for now, the Railroad gets his gun and his skills and his cracked sense of humour.

He grants himself a week in the field to relax. Runs missions with Deacon: collecting dead drops and hitting up safehouses, escorting a synth to safety. Easy work, but satisfying. He tries to adapt himself to his partner’s quirks. The deflection, the secrecy, the compulsive lying. Not the easiest thing in the world. Some days he feels like he’s rewiring his own brain.

It wouldn’t be the first time. The work he did, before what he’s started to refer to as his own personal Ice Age, came with its own strangeness. He’s used to dealing with damaged people. The war made as many of those as it did flag-wrapped coffins.

Five days in, he’s certain the attraction is mutual. Deacon falls into step with him wherever they go, adapting easy to his penchant for sarcasm and large guns. His knife collection. His fire-and-salt attitude to anyone that attacks him. It’s clear from the start that they approach most things differently; that doesn’t seem to be making a difference. They still work. Isaac adapts, and Deacon snaps into place like a particularly quirky puzzle piece. They’re _good_.

“See, this kind of thing? I can’t do this.” They stand in the smoking wreck of a super mutant camp, and Deacon turns away to wipe blood from his sunglasses. “Stealth, secrets, that’s my area of expertise. If I’d been here on my own…I’d have walked away. The cause needs to be more important than saving another doomed settler from being skinned alive ‘cause they didn’t have the sense to read the signs. Synths are the priority. But…yeah. Synths aren’t the only ones that get hurt out here, you know? And you, you’re helping. In your own explosive way. Am I getting my point across here? This is positive reinforcement, I’m reinforcing that killing mutants is A-OK. Keep doing that, and maybe cut back a little on murdering anyone else you think is in your way? Just an idea.”

Isaac shrugs. Rolls his head, trying to cut off the ringing in his ears. Damn fragmentation mines.

He’s wearing stripes of blood across his chest, and if he looks at them and thinks, _war paint. I know someone in Goodneighbor who’d like to see that,_ it might be a sign that he should take a break from the battlefield.

“Any day you need super mutants exploded, I’m your man,” he says. “My other party tricks include melting them with acid, laser disintegration, immolation, defenestration, stabbing, throat slashing, and my famous ‘bullet pincushion’ magic trick. I had to take manual dismemberment off the menu, seeing as I still haven’t found a decent suit of T-51. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

He thinks Deacon might be staring at him. A part of him wants to tear those goddamn sunglasses off and find out. It bothers him, not knowing what the other man is thinking; if he’s being honest, it bothers him that he doesn’t know if he’s scaring his new partner.

His old one was more than used to dealing with his brand of charred-black humour. But she’s defrosting back in the Vault, while he tries to work out where his jagged edges fit these days.

“We’re not far from Goodneighbor,” he says abruptly. “I could use a decent shower, maybe a real bed to sleep in. Are you alright with taking a few days off?”

Deacon nods slowly. “Funny story; I was about to suggest the same thing myself. Look at you, reading my mind. I get first shower.” He’s grinning by the time he reaches the end of the sentence. Like everything else is water under the bridge. That’s one of the things Isaac likes about him; he doesn’t linger over arguments.

It’s eerie, how well they fit together.

“Not a chance, jackass. I’ll fight you for it.”

“We could totally share,” Deacon says, and Isaac feels his insides lurch. Lust, strong and sudden; inconvenient, here in the middle of super mutant territory. His fingers tighten on his gun, and he tries not to picture what’s on offer.

“Real funny,” he snaps, turning towards the road. “Goodneighbor it is.”

He can’t shake the feeling that Deacon is laughing at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to the people leaving kudos/seriously nice comments. I'm pretty nervous about this fic, mostly because I don't generally write OCs, and I worry I'm not doing the best job of it! But the feedback here is just lovely, you're all a pleasure to write for!


	3. Chapter 3

Evening at The Third Rail; Isaac’s half way downstairs when he spots the dark red hair and distinctive jacket slumped into a couch in the corner. He almost misses a step. Catches himself, cursing under his breath. And he knows right then that he should turn around and leave. Before this gets out of control.

D picks that moment to look up and wave at him. “Well, fancy meeting you here,” he calls. “What a spectacular coincidence! I had no idea you were in town.”

“Bullshit,” Isaac mutters, and goes to get himself a drink.

“Took you long enough to come back,” D says when he returns, double rum and Nuka Cola in hand. “I almost thought about taking a trip to Diamond City, seeing if you needed a tour guide. How’d you like the, uh, great green jewel of the Commonwealth?”

“Didn’t go in,” Isaac says. He settles down onto the couch next to D, leaning back against the cushions. The gun on his hip digs in a bit. He ignores it. Never once considers taking it off. “I picked up some extra work on the way, it’s kept me pretty busy.”

“Yeah? What kind of work?”

Isaac pauses with his drink half way to his lips. Lowers it again. D’s pleasant smile is firmly in place; he sprawls across his side of the couch like a man unwinding from a long day. Rumpled shirt, open at the collar. Nothing out of place there.

His eyes, though. Deep blue, and sharper than knives.

“Oh, you know,” Isaac says. “Odds and ends. Pizza delivery, garden maintenance. Trash…disposal. I’m a man of many trades.”

D nods slowly. “Funny. I had you picked out as military.”

“Why? Is Mayor Hancock worried?” Isaac sips his drink and weighs his options. Some things aren’t worth the trouble of trying to hide, and he’s not good at keeping a hundred different stories straight. He’s packing as much heat as Whitechapel Charlie will let him get away with, and the facial scarring doesn’t scream ‘civilian’ so much as ‘got up close and personal with a Chinese flamethrower because he’s an idiot who takes his helmet off in the middle of the battlefield’.

He thinks of Deacon, his obsessive need to be a different person every five minutes. Deacon would be half way through a lie already, talking over Isaac to cover for how blunt he tends to be. Deacon would want him to at least make an effort.

“Might not have been in the army,” Isaac says. “Maybe I was less on the legal side. _Cosa Nostra,_ that kind of gig. Lots of guns there.” He tries to mimic his partner’s jovial tone, and immediately regrets it.

D laughs softly. “Nice try. You should stick to super mutant massacres, friend; you can’t lie for shit. Learn to slouch a little and maybe I’ll believe you were a mobster.”

_Fuck it, I tried,_ Isaac thinks. “Yeah, alright. I was military a while back.”

“What kind?”

He gives D a sharp smile. “The fun kind. Depending on your perspective.”

“Job satisfaction is pretty important,” D agrees. Something in him seems to unwind, a spring losing its tension; he stretches his long legs out in front of him, letting his ankle knock against Isaac’s. “Been pretty busy myself. Work, work, work, all the damn time- it’s like nobody knows how to have fun anymore. You wouldn’t believe some of the assholes I have to report to.”

Isaac thinks back to his most recent encounter with Doctor Carrington. “I’d believe it.”

“Sometimes I just want to punch a few people, but then I’d have to explain myself to the boss; _so_ not worth it. And I’m more of a petty revenge kind of guy anyway. Eating other people’s sandwiches, stealing their hats, washing the whites with the colours.”

“Remind me never to piss you off,” Isaac laughs. “You know, you’d get along real well with my new partner. You two are kind of similar. You both think you’re twice as funny as you actually are.”

“Yeah?” D asks lazily. “Is he pretty? Should I be jealous?”

“You mean you’ve stopped spying on me? You’re not having him followed while he runs whatever errands he’s off doing?” Isaac nudges the other man’s ankle. “Damn. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me what he’s up to.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“Nope.”

“Good,” D says. “Some common sense out of you, finally. Yeah, I’ve seen your new guy. Looks shifty. I’d be careful if I were you, he’s definitely not worth getting attached to. Not that many people are.” His tone is suddenly sharp, almost bitter. He won’t meet Isaac’s eyes.

_Damage,_ Isaac thinks wearily. _We’re all damaged. This whole world is a smoking mess._ He doesn’t want to know the history behind his companion’s abrupt mood swing. That’s not what he’s here for.

He thinks, if it was Deacon, he might not mind so much. Not in the least because the story he’d get would be about as plausible as his old government’s claims about a “clean bomb.” Though there’d be a core of truth in there somewhere, enough that telling it would grant some kind of catharsis. And he’d listen, if it was Deacon. This thing they have is turning into a real partnership, and partnerships come with benefits.

There are lines they don’t cross: Deacon doesn’t touch him. That’s most of the reason he’s even here. And, because it’s important to keep these things separate, it’s the reason he’s not inclined to listen to his red-haired friend’s sob story, whatever it is. A partner is one thing. A fuckbuddy is different.

He’s aware that this makes him an insensitive prick. Luckily, people’s standards of moral decency are pretty low these days.

“Sounds like someone’s been taking trips to the Memory Den, like he told me he wouldn’t,” Isaac says. He drapes an arm around the back of the worn couch, fingers brushing his companion’s neck. “If there’s something I need to know about my new partner, I’m all ears. Otherwise? Forget it. I don’t need a lecture on the dangers of the wasteland.” Pretty soon, he’s going to _be_ one of those dangers, if he isn’t already. He doesn’t plan to devote his entire second life to hunting down a child. Doomed quests are noble in theory, but he’s a realist, and the Commonwealth is one big opportunity for a guy with the right skill set.

D leans back into his hand, closing his eyes as Isaac plays with his hair. “How are you not dead yet? Greatest mystery of our age. Pay attention when friends are telling you stuff, yeah? Learn to tread a little quieter, or bad people are gonna start noticing you.”

“Like Hancock?” He presses harder, kneading at the other man’s scalp.

D snorts with laughter. “Forget Hancock. It’s the Institute you should be worried about, among other things. You’re not the scariest Radshark in the backyard swimming pool.”

“Working on it,” Isaac says. He’s rapidly developing a fixation with the other man’s hair. His eyes too, the way they’re glazing over, softening with pleasure.

Even his eyelashes are red. It’s a strange thing to get hung up over, but something warm and pleasant pools in Isaac’s stomach, and he removes his hand from D’s hair. Strokes his knuckles down the other man’s temple. His thumb brushes those lovely eyelashes.

D gives him an unexpectedly wistful smile. “What, no more massage? I was just getting comfortable.”

“Yeah? Let me make it up to you.”

They leave when Whitechapel Charlie notices- and it takes him a while, given that the couch isn’t facing in his direction. A strategic choice; Isaac appreciates it the whole time he’s kissing his strange friend breathless, teasing him with a hand between his legs. They separate when Charlie threatens to skewer them both and use their eyeballs for garnish. Laughing, breathless; D leans in close and says, “So I’m all about them classy hookups. Ever had a guy suck you off in an alleyway?”

“What,” Isaac says, “No VIP room this time?”

“Some of us need Charlie in a good mood if we want to keep ordering the off-menu specials,” D says, tugging him gently towards the exit. Not that there’s much tugging required. Isaac fakes reluctance until they’re half way up the stairwell, out of the barkeep’s view.

He shoves D up against the wall, a thigh between his legs. Bites his neck hard in revenge for the hickey last time. The other man’s hands are in his hair, clawing at his back, the straps of his armour. Isaac grins against his mouth, and pretends he doesn’t notice his weapons being counted, one by one. Pretends he’s not doing the exact same thing.

He allows the alleyway outside, exposed though it is. He allows himself to end up against the wall this time, while D fake-fumbles with his belt, and manages to find another of his knives in the process. It’s like a strip search, only without the actual stripping. Again, he’s left to imagine the lines of the other man’s body, mapping it out by touch with a hand under his shirt and another on the small of his back. Dipping under the hem of his pants.

“Here’s an idea,” he says, biting at D’s ear. “How about you just chalk up my weapons count as ‘lots’, and we get on with the actual fucking?”

“But I was being so _subtle_ ,” D retorts, then moans as teeth turn to tongue, and Isaac sucks on his earlobe.

Isaac takes advantage of the distraction to spin them around so he’s the one with open alleyway at his back. Hemming his partner in with a hand on either side of his head. His belt is hanging open, an invitation, and D goes for it immediately.

He has amazing hands. Amazing hair, an amazing tongue that seems to know exactly what switches Isaac from uncooperative to easy. He ruts up against the thigh Isaac has between his legs, groaning under his breath like he hasn’t done this since their last meeting. The scent of smoke on his skin is faint this time, buried under fresh, hotel-issue soap. Must’ve scrubbed fast after work. Maybe he heard he might have a friend coming to visit.

Isaac closes his eyes. It’s the soap; the same kind he himself used in the cramped hotel shower, after Deacon finally let him have a turn. He leaned back against the cracked tiles, the lukewarm water turning frothy pink around his feet, and tried not to think too hard about his new partner. Tried to distract himself with wondering whether or not Deacon might have showered in his sunglasses, because the alternative was imagining him without them.

He kisses D’s neck, breathes him in and admits that he might have a problem here. Things are starting to get mixed up, wires crossed. Next thing he knows, he’ll be calling the wrong name in battle, or in bed. Assuming he and D ever make it to a bed.

But, hey. Sex is sex, and intimacy is in short supply out there in the wasteland. Isaac reaches down between them, yanking D’s pants open, reaching for his cock. Solid, nicely sized, and he groans when Isaac touches him. The reddish pubic hair is as attractive as it was last time he rubbed his face in it.

“If you still want that blow job, you’re going to have to let me get on my knees here,” D tells him.

“Change of plans,” Isaac says, acting on a whim. “I want to watch you touch yourself.” He’s not bashful about this kind of thing; never has been. You get what you ask for. “Show me how you like it.”

D raises his eyebrows. “If it’s a show you’re after, you should have gone for Magnolia instead.”

“Come on.” Isaac scrapes his teeth up the other man’s neck, giving his cock another firm squeeze. “I might not be back here for weeks. Give a guy something good to think about, while he’s traipsing all over the wasteland? Something to keep him warm after a long day of shooting muties?”

“I will if you will,” D hisses back, and Isaac grins.

“On it.”

He slides his pants a little lower down on his hips, mindful of the holsters hooked to his belt. Watches, amused, as D does the same- and, strangely enough, it looks like he’s actually managed to knock his friend’s confidence down a peg or two. D avoids his gaze; keeps his eyes down at waist level as he spits gracelessly into his palm and takes his own cock in hand.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting out of this,” he grumbles. “I can do it for myself, any day.”

“But you’re doing it for _me_ ,” Isaac says. “Big difference.”

He can already tell it was a good idea. Can’t decide where he wants to be looking; he’s spoiled for choice. D’s hand on his own cock, the rough, hurried strokes he seems to favour. His face; his eyes are half closed, and he worries at his lip with anxious teeth. He’s clearly antsy about this. The exposure in this filthy alleyway, or maybe he just doesn’t like having an audience for something this personal. He meets Isaac’s eyes and glares. Then his eyes dart lower. His breathing gets shaky.

D may not like to put on a show, but he clearly has no objections to seeing Isaac return the favour.

“You like what you see?” Isaac asks. He’s not so calm himself; he’d love to be above it all, to give this man a performance like nothing he’s ever seen, and still come out of it in control- but he knows himself. He’s too fond of the attention. Gets off too hard on those blue eyes, hazy with lust, that can’t seem to tear themselves away from Isaac’s hand where it strokes a slow rhythm up and down his own cock.

“Can’t fault the view,” D says shakily. He’s barely bothering to touch himself anymore. Watches Isaac, and his shoulders shake every time he breathes. He’s pressed as far back up against the brick wall as he can get. So, happy to watch, less so to perform.

_Fair enough_ , Isaac thinks, and gives the guy a break.

“Want to change things up?” he asks, releasing his cock and reaching for D’s, wrapping his fingers around the other man’s. His hands are warm, rough like any wastelander’s, and he closes his eyes the moment Isaac touches him.

“That’d be really fucking good of you,” he mutters, and arches into Isaac’s hand, his free palm pressed flat against the wall at his side. “Just stop… _looking_ at me like that. It’s weird, man.”

“It’s called eye contact, beautiful.” He doesn’t mean to say the last part; it slips out, and then D is giving him an incredulous look, and he doesn’t want to take it back after all. He squeezes the other man’s cock and grins. “Guy like you doesn’t have anything to worry about. People would be _lucky_ to get a look at you.”

“Call me paranoid.”

“Maybe later.” Isaac crowds D backwards, resting his a hand on the wall by his head. The other is busy between them. He’s judging his strokes by the minute flickers of expression across D’s face; the breathy little noises that slip out every time Isaac’s hand slides over the head of his cock.

His eyes are so incredibly expressive. He looks up, meets Isaac’s gaze, and Isaac is stranded in blue. Pupils not quite wide enough to swallow the iris, dazed and, for once, not distrusting. D blinks slowly, swallows, and closes his eyes with a shudder.

Those eyelashes. God, he’s wasted in a place like Goodneighbor.

“Not going to look at me?” Isaac asks, and D shakes his head. Doesn’t open his eyes. But he does push a hand between them, fumbling with Isaac’s open belt, blindly grazing his knuckles against one of Isaac’s hips. “It’d help if you could see what you’re trying to find.”

“Shut up,” D mutters, and finally gets a hand on his cock. Touching him rough, the way he likes it. His grip is almost tight enough to hurt, and Isaac finds himself leaning on the wall as his knees weaken.

“Fuck, you’re good at that.”

“I’m good at a lot of things,” D whispers into his neck. “Hand jobs, blow jobs, knitting cardigans. Ask me about the special two-for-one offer I’ve got going on right now.”

The comment comes at the worst time, in the worst voice; for a second there, he sounds almost exactly like a man Isaac’s been trying his utmost not to think about. For a second, Isaac closes his eyes. Leans his forehead against the wall, turning his head to nuzzle at D’s short hair. For a second, he thinks,

_Deacon._

And he groans, bucking up into the other man’s hand as he comes, muffling himself against the other man’s scalp. He’s not sure it’s the right name that comes out. Almost positive it isn’t. The fact that this is even something he has to worry about is beyond funny and well into dangerous territory.

He’s only vaguely aware of D pushing at his wrist, wriggling against him, and muttering, “Okay, stop, stop, ow, sensitive.” It’s only then Isaac realises his fingers are sticky. He didn’t notice D finishing. The man didn’t make a sound.

“Sorry,” he says, and gives the other man’s cock a last, slow stroke for good measure. Smearing his come all over them both. “Or maybe I’m not.”

“ _Ow_ , asshole, stop that. I’m not freaking Grognak here, I need a good thirty seconds to recover before I’m ready for that kind of attention again. Maybe a little more. Radiation does cruel and unusual things to a man’s refractory period.”

“Thirty seconds, huh? Might hold you to that.” Isaac pushes himself upright, wincing as his arm protests at the strain of having held his weight for too long. He glances down at his other hand, semen sticking to his fingers. And he’s all but cheerfully resigned to licking it off when D shoves a handkerchief at him.

It’s graying, tattered, but otherwise clean. Isaac stares.

“What?” D says. “Some of us came prepared. No, that pun was not intentional, before you decide to strange the life out of me.”

“You’d deserve it.” Obediently, Isaac cleans himself up. Puts his clothes back into order and returns the handkerchief when D beckons for it. They look almost presentable. Only a little bit like they just hooked up in maybe the filthiest alleyway this side of the Commonwealth. God, he’s moving up in the world.

“So,” D says, raising his eyebrows. “I think we can both agree that this has been an educational and eye-opening experience, which is great because it saves me the awkwardness of explaining that I-”

“You maybe want to come with me when I leave?” Isaac interrupts.

D blinks at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You. Me. Wandering the wasteland with huge guns and bigger attitude problems. My partner would love you.”

It’s like watching shutters come down at dusk; D’s expression goes from open to impenetrable in the space of a second.

“Holy shit,” he says, so quiet Isaac has to lean in to hear him. “I thought you’d realised. You seriously have no idea?”

“I have lots of ideas,” Isaac protests. “Adventures. Profit. The occasional good deed. Seeing what’s left of the sights, out in the wasteland? Come on, you can’t seriously tell me you’re having more fun in this shantytown. The place is a wreck! What are you even doing here? Running useless errands for Hancock, like there aren’t better things you could be doing with your time?” He doesn’t like the ice that’s forming in D’s eyes, the way he pulls himself up straight to emphasise the lack of height difference.

“That’s pretty forward of you,” D says. His tone is less than friendly. “You insult Goodneighbor, insult my work, hell, you’re even stupid enough to insult the mayor in his own town. That’s like a whole new level of stupid. There’s not even a name for it on the scale, we had to add an extra notch and label it with your initials.”

“Always nice to leave a mark wherever I go?” Isaac offers. “Come on, it was just a question.”

“Like it’s just that simple?” D gives a bark of laughter; it’s not pleasant. “Some of us got commitments, friend. People relying on us. Causes we really believe in. We can’t all drift from fight to fight like nothing matters except the number of scalps we take from whatever we killed today. Jesus. _No,_ I don’t want to just drop everything and run aimlessly around the wasteland until something meaner kills me.”

Isaac raises his hands, a pacifying gesture. He actually catches himself backing away a step or two, and stops, disgusted with himself. “I didn’t think-”

“No,” D agrees. “You didn’t. If you keep not thinking, you’re going to die. And before you decide to get all scary and ask me if I’m threatening you, I’m not. I’m making an observation based on thousands of other hotshots like you that I’ve seen dead on the ground. You’re no different.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Isaac snaps. “Tell me. I’m listening, if that’s what you wanted. And my attention span isn’t that long, just so you know.”

“Find a way to extend it, then,” D snarls back. His blue eyes are burning, narrowed. “You’re not in the Vault anymore. World’s changed, buddy. And there are more important things out there than your reckless, stupid self, so either you learn how to _learn_ , or we won’t be meeting up here again. I’ll still be around; you won’t.”

Isaac feels his temper fray. He’s honestly surprised it took this long.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” he says. “All you had to do was tell me ‘no’. I don’t need the lecture, or the criticism, or your fucking doomsday predictions or whatever. You want me gone? I’m gone. Can’t promise you won’t see me around Goodneighbor again, but it’s not like we ever have to talk. Because it’s not like you know me. You don’t.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” D takes a breath, like there’s something he’s about to say. He seems to consider. Then he lets it out. Squares his shoulders and gives Isaac a stiff nod. “But now really isn’t the time. If you’ll excuse me, I got other stuff I need to be doing. Probably won’t see you again before you leave, so…”

“Fuck off and die?” Isaac suggests. “I can manage the first one. The second is more something I save for people who annoy me. Enjoy your evening, asshole. I’ll see myself out.” He saves D the effort of having to push past him, turning his back on the other man and stalking back towards Goodneighbor’s main streets. His hand never strays more than an inch from the weapons at his waist. He’s on alert, listening for a rustle of leather on metal, gun drawn from holster. It doesn’t come.

Isaac stops at the mouth of the alleyway, turning around and peering back into the dark.

There’s nobody there.

He makes his way back to the Hotel Rexford, letting himself back into his and Deacon’s room and closing the door with more force than necessary. The effect is wasted; his partner’s gone AWOL.

Might be for the best. Isaac doesn’t know what he would have said. How he’d have even begun to explain. He’s not too sure what happened himself. He screwed something up, stepped on some invisible landmine and suffered consequences he’s not actually sure he deserves, for once. He didn’t _do_ anything.

“What the fuck.” Isaac flops down onto the bed closest by the door. Deacon called dibs on it earlier, but Deacon isn’t here to argue. If it bothers him that bad, they can just fucking share. Not that they will. Deacon doesn’t touch him.

_No more delays,_ he thinks, staring up at the filthy, mould-ridden ceiling. _We’re going to Diamond City in the morning. Finding the detective, finding the truth. Moving on already._

At some point in the night, the door creaks open. Isaac rises, half asleep, and takes aim at the intruder. For one heart-stopping moment, he _knows_ it’s his red-haired friend. Come to settle a score; come to apologise; come to fuck in an actual bed.

“Do you have a Geiger Counter?” Deacon whispers, and Isaac lowers his weapon slightly.

“Where have you been?”

“Answer the question,” Deacon tells him. “And put that down before you hurt someone. Namely me. I’m into some kinky shit, don’t get me wrong, but bullet holes aren’t included in that. I could, however, go for some nasty, hardcore cuddling right about now. Assuming you have a counter of the Geiger variety.”

Isaac replaces his gun on the nightstand and flops back down onto the totally inadequate pillow. “It’s in the fucking shop,” he snaps. “Happy? Can I go back to sleep?”

“Always nice to be miserable in company,” Deacon says, kicking his boots off. “Rough night for you too? Shame. Also, you’re in my bed.”

“Didn’t see your name on it.”

“Didn’t realise we were having to write our _names_ on things,” Deacon says. “Next thing I know, you’ll be stealing my lunch. Or my ammo. Which I wouldn’t actually mind so much, you’re a lot better at head shots than me. My bullets are yours. But if you touch my steak sandwiches, we’re gonna have issues.” He sits on the opposite bed, tugging his shirt off gracelessly. Tossing it aside and straightening his sunglasses. “Anything you want to talk about while I’m still awake enough to respond?” There’s an edge to his voice; he’s angry, Isaac realises. That’s a first.

“Not right now,” he says, rolling onto his side to face Deacon. “Maybe when I work out what actually happened.”

“You don’t know?”

_No I don’t fucking know,_ Isaac bites back. He’s angry, but that’s not Deacon’s fault. And tearing into each other over personal matters is a good way to wreck a new partnership. He wants this to work. He likes this man; there aren’t many people in the Commonwealth he could say the same for. “I have no idea,” he mutters. “Something I said, maybe, but the reaction seemed kind of extreme. I barely know the guy.”

He thinks he sees Deacon’s shoulders slump. Which makes no sense- unless he’s upset by the confirmation that Isaac went out to meet someone this evening. Which also makes no sense, because if he wanted that kind of claim on Isaac, he could have just said.

Trying to find sense in Deacon’s labyrinth of a brain would drive the most patient man crazy. And Isaac is far from patient.

“Drop it,” he says. “Doesn’t matter anymore, he’s gone. Who ruined _your_ evening? Need me to take care of them for you?” Deacon is shaking his head before Isaac finishes speaking.

“You have issues, pal,” he says. “And that’s coming from…pretty much the most laid back dude in the ‘Wealth, discounting that one Mister Handy unit we found in Sunshine Tidings. I’m going to start enforcing mandatory partnership yoga. Used to teach classes, before the war. My _balasana_ is something that has to be seen to be believed, and believe me, when you see it, it’ll change you.”

“Right,” Isaac says blankly. “So what you’re saying is you have no intention of telling me what’s up.”

“Pretty much.”

“Suit yourself. I’m going back to sleep.”

Deacon gives him thirty seconds of blessed silence before speaking up again. “You know, you’d have a better shot at an intruder from this bed.”

“Mph.”

“I’m serious, you could splatter their brains all over the wall on the other side of the hallway! The angle you’d have, you might even be able to break your current brain-splatter record. Remind me again how far that is?”

“Deacon, shut _up_.”

“And then we could put up some kind of plaque on the wall, and pass the brown brain-stain off as a legit tourist attraction.”

Isaac sits up, running a hand through his hair. “Give me one good reason why you want this bed, and I’ll let you have it. If it’ll shut you up.” He mentally bids the warm blankets goodbye; he’s swapping whatever Deacon tells him, and they both know it. Mostly because there’s no way he’ll get back to sleep if they don’t.

“You’re closest to the exits,” Deacon says quietly. “The door, the window. That’s where I need to be. Can’t sleep otherwise; it’s part of what makes me so quirky and lovable. That, and my tendency to recite entire passages from the works of Charles Dickens. In my sleep.”

“I’m abandoning you at the next raider camp we find.” He isn’t, though. What he is doing is switching beds, stretching out under cold sheets with a gun on the nightstand and another under his pillow, glaring at Deacon in the dark. Wishing he could muster back some of the anger from earlier. Instead, all he’s left with is mild irritation at how cold his toes are.

“So,” Deacon mumbles. “Mm, this is super cozy, you’re the best heater a guy could wish for. Diamond City tomorrow, yay or nay?”

“I bet we get there and find absolutely fucking nothing.”

“Probably,” Deacon agrees. “But the noodles are worth a trip, at least.”

“You’re paying.”

“Sure am. Might just need you to loan me a few caps to tide me over until payday. I’ll get ‘em back to you with interest, I swear. Count on it.”

The bickering fades out, after a while. Deacon might be the only man Isaac’s ever met who can talk himself to sleep. It should be annoying; it is. And it’s not. It’s Deacon all over, and as he lies there in the dark with an ear in tune to the other man’s breathing, Isaac thinks-

_Oh, fuck._


	4. Chapter 4

“I love vaults,” Deacon says as the door grinds its way open. “Think it might be because I was born in one, you know? Once a vault dweller, always a vault dweller.”

“And I’m comfortable with large guns because my nonna was a rocket launcher,” Isaac tells him. “See how it feels when you keep lying to people?”

“Sure explains your creepy affinity for explosions. Runs in the family, huh?”

“You think I’m bad, you should have met my old partner.” He’s never going to be comfortable with vault doors. The gear-like opening mechanism is too much machine, too permanent. Puts him too much in mind of a large, concrete coffin. Enclosed spaces were never his thing. He can feel himself grow more antsy with every step. “So, this Nick Valentine guy. You ever heard of him?”

“You know me,” Deacon says as they step over the threshold. “I’m a walking address book. I know everyone in the ‘Wealth by first name, last name, nickname, and that adorable thing their parents used to call them when they were little kids, which they totally thought nobody knew about.”

“Would it kill you to just say have no fucking idea?”

“Can’t do that. It’s against my religion.” Deacon walks a few steps behind him, as he usually does when they’re heading into obvious trouble. It works well for them both; Deacon’s got a knack for spotting traps and bots and inconvenient mines. For killing enemies before they know he’s there.

Isaac is at his best in the middle of the gunfire. _My big, sorta beautiful distraction,_ Deacon calls him, and it’s true. They’re a good enough team that he doesn’t mind putting half his ammo budget towards Stealth Boys.

And people used to say he was incapable of compromise.

“He’s a synth,” Deacon says abruptly. Isaac drags his attention away from eyeing the concrete ceiling, the oppressive absence of natural light. The walls aren’t closing in on him. They’re not, and he fucking knows this, so there’s nothing to worry about.

“Who?”

“Valentine. He’s Nick the robot dick- hey, did the wording on that make you really uncomfortable, or is it just me? I mean, he’s a Gen 2, so he probably doesn’t even have a…you know.”

“No, actually,” Isaac says. “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me. You maybe want to elaborate? Go into a bit more detail? Draw me a picture-”

“Bad guys ahead,” Deacon says, and he shuts up. “Hey, you think maybe we could try a negotiation for once? See if they want something in exchange for their hostage, or…oh. Or not.”

If there’s one thing to be said for marching into some hot-shot gangster’s underground vault base, it’s that none of his troops were expecting anyone to be stupid enough to try. That, and they’re all aware of the risks involved with carrying guns underground. Bullets ricochet; accidents happen. Most of the guys they run into are carrying nice, sensible baseball bats.

 _Makes the job a lot easier for the one asshole with the rifle_ , Isaac thinks as he opens fire. He’s aware of Deacon skirting the edges of the fight, taking silenced shots at their enemies from behind. It’s a genuine pleasure to watch him work, though he does it all with a grimace, wincing as the bodies fall. Always nice to team up with a pro. He’s almost worried by how easy it’s all getting; how easy it is to adjust his game plans to allow for Deacon’s skill. To turn his back on the other man and trust that it won’t mean a bullet in the spine.

“We’re really good at this,” Deacon says as the last mobster chokes on a ruined throat. “Too good, maybe? Glory would disagree, but I’m personally a little concerned by how high my body count’s skyrocketed recently. At this rate, I could fertilize half of Sanctuary; bumper crop next year, I guarantee.”

He doesn’t sound too happy about it. Isaac shoots him a questioning look.

“Is that an issue? You’ve killed before.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it,” Deacon says flatly. “But you…you’re into this, aren’t you? Every time I look at you, you’re grinning like a maniac.”

“Adrenaline rush,” Isaac shrugs. “And I’m pretty competitive.”

“So this is a competition for you. Killing people.”

They’ve stopped moving. Deacon makes a show of kneeling by the closest mobster, rifling through his pockets, but it’s clearly half-hearted. He’s making an effort to look anywhere that isn’t Isaac.

The conversation isn’t a surprise. Not really. The timing is. They’d have been better off handling this somewhere that doesn’t involve blood on the ground, concrete walls that make Isaac’s shoulders itch. The wasteland would have been better. Hell, even Sanctuary would have worked. Anywhere that isn’t an enclosed space underground, with only one apparent viable exit. This place is over two centuries old. God knows when it last had an engineer inspect it. Lingering down here is pretty much the worst idea they could possibly have right now.

Isaac takes a deep breath. Tries to keep his temper in check. “ _War_ is a competition, Deacon. Who has the biggest gun, the most resources, the best allies. Which side is faster at pressing the big, red ‘apocalypse’ button.”

“And last time it wasn’t yours.”

“No,” Isaac agrees. _But it should have been._ The thought comes unbidden; he’s not sure if he means it, or if it’s just bitterness talking. He doesn’t want to be talking about this at all. Not here. “Does it matter?”

“I’m starting to think it might.” Deacon stands slowly. He didn’t loot anything from the corpse; didn’t seem to be seriously looking. If he’d just take those damn sunglasses off and make eye contact… “You’re really angry, you know that?”

He can’t be serious. “Okay, one,” Isaac says. “We’re in the middle of a rescue mission, and this is not the time. Two? I don’t think I’m any angrier than I have a right to be. I had a _bomb_ dropped on me. My life is gone. I woke up in a fucking radioactive wasteland, and I got people trying to kill me every day- when it’s not giant scorpions or mutated green…whatever they are. Hell, some days it’s robots. Just for variety.” He’s breathing quickly now, fists clenched, and Deacon’s standing right in his face. Staring him down. “So…yeah. You want me to admit that I’m angry? I am. I’m _furious_.”

“I bet,” Deacon says quietly. “How do you think rest of us feel?”

“What?”

Deacon cracks a humorless smile. “The rest of us. The ones that got saddled with a fucking radioactive wasteland from _birth_. You Old Worlders got to live the good life; the widgets, the Mac  & Cheese, the…stories. Christ, Isaac, the _stories_. I read those things and my heart breaks a little, you know?” His voice breaks too; shakes with defensive rage. “And you’re angry at _us_ , because your people ended the world. Do you see where that might start being a bit unfair, or do you want me to draw you a picture of that too?”

They’re right up close, far closer than they normally get; Deacon’s personal space boundaries tend to keep him well out of grabbing range. He flirts from a distance. Simultaneously projects _come get me_ and _stay back_. He’s a whole pile of contradictions, but the one thing he’s guaranteed not to do is intimacy.

Isaac can make out the shadows of his eyes behind the sunglasses. Any other time, he’d have counted that as a victory.

“What do you want from me?” he demands. He can’t match Deacon’s quiet tone. Subtle doesn’t suit him, and that’s not about to change. “You don’t like me killing people? Why is this is only coming up now? You didn’t have any issues with me clearing out your Switchboard for you. What about the raiders I took down for Murphy safehouse? The ones I killed to protect H2-22? But now I’m doing something for myself, to lay a few of my ghosts to rest- and suddenly you’re lecturing me?”

He sees Deacon recoil, and stomps down on unwanted regret.

“The mission has nothing to do with it,” Deacon says. “It’s just…really bad timing. I’d have done this yesterday if we weren’t so busy helping out that super friendly Paladin Danse- and I bet that won’t come back to bite us in the ass. Hell, I’d be lecturing you even if we _were_ in the middle of a Railroad mission.”

“You wouldn’t,” Isaac tells him. “You’d wait until we were done. That’s your job. And the job has to come before your concerns about your partner’s morality. Or lack thereof.” He drops anger in favour of sarcasm. “Do you see where that might be a little hypocritical, or should I draw _you_ a picture?”

It’s the vault. Has to be; they’re not normally like this.

Only, they are. Things have been unsettled since they stopped off in Goodneighbor last week. Whatever business Deacon was taking care of there, it clearly didn’t go as planned. And Isaac’s been swallowing back bitterness of his own. Worse still, he knows he has no right to. He pushed too far. Asked for something that was never on offer in the first place. D was _right_ to react the way he did.

He wonders if he should have told Deacon about it. Might have helped. Deacon’s good at a lot of things, and one of them is calming Isaac down. Pulling him back when he gets overexcited. When he gets arrogant.

The burn scars on his face itch abruptly; it takes a conscious effort to keep from lifting a hand to them.

“Look,” Isaac starts to say, and then Deacon talks over him.

“I’m sorry.”

They stare at each other.

“You want to go first?” Deacon offers.

“Be my guest.”

“We could draw lots. That’s how we handle the stuff at HQ that nobody really wants to do. Only, I always cheat. Literally everyone cheats except for Drummer Boy, which is how he always ends up taking out the trash on Mondays.” Deacon talks quickly, his tone artificially chipper. “One of these days we’ll find someone to be lower on the Railroad ladder than he is; technically it should be you, I guess? But everyone’s too scared of what might happen if they tell you to go make the coffees, so the new-guy hazing just didn’t happen.”

“I’d make you coffee,” Isaac objects. “Just you, though. Everyone else can fucking make their own.”

“See, if I’d known that before, I’d have exploited the hell out of you.”

Isaac shrugs. “You’re my partner. You get to do that.” He finds himself rubbing the back of his neck; curses silently. It’s a blatant tell, for anyone with eyes. Might as well just scrawl his discomfort on his forehead in white Railroad chalk. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Shouldn’t be bringing outside problems into a mission.”

“That was a truly stellar apology, pal, I’m genuinely touched.” Deacon’s smile looks more real this time. “I’m also relieved to find you’re as human as the rest of us, kryptonite and all. Claustrophobia, right? Your eyes are darting all over the place.”

“Mild,” Isaac protests. “I can still complete the mission, it’s not affecting me.”

Deacon reaches over to pat his cheek, and Isaac twitches in shock. “Shh,” the other man says. “Just let me bask in the moment.”

“The moment of me being uncomfortable?”

“Is that really what you’re taking from this?” Deacon says. “No. For once, _I_ get to worry about _your_ random paranoia. Frosty the angry soldier doesn’t like small spaces. They make him grumpier than usual. You give him some constructive criticism, he turns it into a dramatic existential crisis with bells and whistles attached. _Calm down,_ you trigger-happy icecopath _._ For once, let’s just try talk our way out of this, okay?”

He hasn’t taken his hand off Isaac’s face. It’s incredibly distracting. “Icecopath?” he manages. “Is that secret Railroad code for something?”

“No, it’s…it’s just _you_ , alright? Because you were frozen in the Vault, and keep killing people? Yeah? It’s funny.”

 _If I turn my head, I could kiss your palm right now,_ Isaac thinks. _That would be pretty funny._ It wouldn’t help things. And he can’t be sure he’d be doing it because he wants to, because it might just be a reaction to his Goodneighbor screw-up. To the fact that he doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He thought it was Deacon; still is, and that’s not changing any time soon. But there’s someone else on his mind, with sharp blue eyes and red hair, and he may have gone and ruined that already. He doesn’t know. There are so many things he doesn’t know anymore.

_Life was so much easier when all we had to worry about was total nuclear annihilation._

He takes a step back, chalking it up as a win for self-control. Not that it makes him feel any better. “Fine. You want to try talking? We can do that. But the second someone opens fire on us, I’m taking them out with extreme prejudice.”

“That’s fair,” Deacon agrees. “It’s all I’m asking from you: give people a chance. And you know it means something that I’m bothering to ask at all, because if I didn’t think it would work, I’d just leave. I don’t want to do that. I’d miss our little talks, for starters. And all the coffee you’re going to make me.”

“I don’t even know where coffee comes from these days,” Isaac says, but he’s beaten, and he knows it. Floored by a hand on his cheek and a simple statement: _I’d just leave_.

He hadn’t realised that was an option.

“Tom synthesizes it,” Deacon says. It takes Isaac a moment to work out what he means. “With a combination of nanoparticles, unidentified plant matter, and what looks like molerat droppings, though nobody really wants to ask. It’s true! Ask him to show you his little machine, he loves that thing. They’ll be announcing the wedding any day now.”

Deacon turns away, gesturing towards the tunnel that’ll lead them further into the vault. “Come on,” he says, and it’s almost gentle. “Deep breaths. Sooner we track our dick down, sooner we can leave. Fuck, I need to stop calling him that. It’s just so…no.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Isaac says. “Let’s go find this detective. Here’s hoping he’s less of a dick than the guy I’m already travelling with.”

He’s going to talk to Deacon, he decides. After they leave this goddamn concrete coffin, after they find Valentine and get him onboard, after they’ve tracked down a place to stay for the night. He’s going to explain about Goodneighbor. How, he isn’t sure; doesn’t help that he can’t work out what the problem really is. But he’ll find a way. And if getting it off his chest doesn’t help matters, maybe Deacon has some advice.

Maybe one of them will finally do something about the tension between them. Because that couldn’t possibly make things worse. But at the very least, he wants to let Deacon know where they stand. Tell him it’s not just a physical thing anymore. He owes his partner that honesty.

With this in mind, he follows Deacon into the vault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you courtesy of me listening to Deacon's low-affinity conversations and making a **D:** face the whole time.


	5. Chapter 5

Goodneighbor again. And so soon after he promised himself he wouldn’t be coming back; Isaac stares up at the neon Memory Den sign and wonders if the world itself is conspiring to fuck him up in as many different ways as possible. He doesn’t want to be here. He wouldn’t be here. Except-

Valentine needed a break for repairs after the Vault rescue thing, and Deacon was dropping hints about Railroad business in the area, and KL-E-O sells the cheapest ammunition of anyone he’s found - though chances are she just likes sending him out with a bulging rucksack and an urge to fill some warm bodies with lead and buckshot. She slashes prices when he comes around with stories. One of these days he’s going to come back and find she’s leveled the whole town flat with that Fat Man she keeps on a shelf behind her counter. That, or he’ll finally save up enough to buy it from her.

Isaac tries to picture the look on Deacon’s face for that particular transaction, and snorts with laughter.

The man himself vanished as soon as they booked a hotel room and ditched their excess gear. Same as last time; no explanation, vague threats of dire consequences to follow if Isaac steals his bed again. Which he will. Of course he will. If he didn’t, Deacon would start worrying he’d been synth-replaced.

Serves him right for turning down Isaac’s dinner invitation earlier. Doubly so because they need to talk. Haven’t had a chance to do so since the Vault, and Isaac’s getting antsy with how badly he needs to get this over and done with, so they can just move on already. So he can _focus_.

The neon sign flickers above his head. Isaac stares up at it and wonders.

If he were a truly driven man, dead set on finishing his little treasure hunt as soon as possible, he might have a reason to enter. Watch the memory again; learn the little things that might help him win a fight he can feel approaching. The man in the Vault. The bastard who managed what the Battle of Anchorage couldn’t, and took his partner out of the picture. That’s not a confrontation he can delay forever.

A missing person quest was never something he was suited for; a bloody revenge mission is a different story. Better still, it’s not something he’s sure he can win. High stakes, high rewards. Every little edge counts.

He could go into the Memory Den and bully Irma into letting him return to the Vault. Look for something that might give him an advantage, maybe. Something he can use.

 _Promised D I wouldn’t go back,_ Isaac thinks, glaring up at orange neon. _Sort of. Not that it matters._

“Don’t,” says someone behind him, and Isaac twitches. He doesn’t turn. Rests a hand on the gun at his hip and wonders what Deacon will say to him if he kills a man in broad daylight, in the middle of the street. Maybe he could claim self defense.

“I’m serious,” D says, closer now. “Once is bad enough. It’s worse for you, given your history before the war. You go in to relive the glory days, maybe you don’t come out again. Maybe you don’t want to.”

“Don’t know what you mean by ‘glory days’. I just really like the décor in there, it’s nice and…red. High-class brothel kind of atmosphere, it’s relaxing.”

“If Irma hears you say that, she’ll make your life a living hell,” D says mildly, and Isaac laughs.

“Nothing Vault Tec didn’t already do.”

“Bullshit,” D says. “You’re having more fun in the here and now than you ever did back in the day. You just love the Wasteland, don’t you? It lets you be the vicious dog you couldn’t get away with back when society still had actual standards.” The words are nasty, sharpened to hurt; the tone is almost affectionate. Finally, Isaac turns to look at the other man.

He regrets it immediately. He sees D, the sharp blue eyes and short red hair, the easy slouch; something inside him gives a lurch. He’s missed this man. They’ve met three times in total, and he’s fucking attached. If there was a wall within reach, he’d probably be punching it by now.

“Thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore,” he says. “You’re doing a real good job of that, nice work.”

“That’s me. Breaking off a truly fantastic sulk to step in when I see you about to make choices you’ll regret. Like drowning yourself in memory soup, or-“

“Hooking up with you?” Isaac asks. He doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears. “I’m not here for fun this time. Just stopping by so my partner can take care of some business, then I’m leaving again. What do you want?”

D gives him an inscrutable look. “Have dinner with me.”

“Huh?”

“There’s a small place, hole in the wall kind of joint, it’s just around the corner. They do a mean mirelurk steak. Mean, as in ‘seriously freaking awesome’, not ‘it’ll turn your insides to bubbly green sludge’. Just so you know.” He sounds so earnest about it. There’s clearly something he isn’t saying, but secretive men are pretty much standard for Isaac these days. He sees someone not telling him something, and he relaxes.

It’s probably a sign he’s finally losing it.

“Yeah,” he says, against his better judgment. “Why not. I could use a decent meal for once. I can’t cook for shit, and my partner’s even worse.”

D’s eyebrows shoot up. His mouth works, like there’s something he wants to say and can’t decide how.

“Fine,” he mutters, oddly stiff. “It’s this way.”

 _What the hell is up with you?_ Isaac wonders, but it’s not enough to keep him from following. He doesn’t look back at the Memory Den; if he’s honest, he never wanted to enter in the first place. He wants answers without having to hurt for them. And if he has to hurt…

He’d rather bleed than have his mind ripped open again.

D’s restaurant is a tiny place, barely large enough to seat ten. Isaac lets his friend lead the way, glancing around warily - and then his eyes settle on the dusty brick wall behind the counter. Waist height, easy to miss: white rail sign. _Ally_.

“You could totally just stand there all evening if you wanted, but I promise the food is better sitting down.” D watches him with an odd smile, his eyes drifting to the white paint on the wall and then back to Isaac’s face. “Come on. I’ll even pull your chair out for you.”

“Never thought I’d find actual manners out in the wasteland.”

“People tell me I’m one of a kind. Though it’s generally more of a ‘thank you god’ kind of thing, which I overlook because I get that I’m too much awesome for some people to handle.” He actually follows through on his offer to pull out Isaac’s chair. Knows better than to try and take the shotgun slung over Isaac’s shoulder; he settles for gesturing to the convenient crate sitting by the table for that express purpose.

He’s making an effort to charm, and Isaac feels himself start to relax. He shouldn’t; he still has no fucking clue what the last argument was about. But, god, it’s hard not to respond to D’s smile.

“Still want to try the mirelurk?” D asks. “They also do good eggs. Not sure what kind, but it’s your digestive system to risk.”

Isaac shrugs. “Mirelurk is fine. Can’t be worse than radroach meat.”

He’s charmed that D bothered to check with him. Charmed by the other man ordering for both of them, glancing at Isaac for confirmation as he does. Charmed to find D reaching over to touch his hand when the waiter leaves; lowering his voice to say, “It’s best if you don’t ask where they get the meat from, but I can promise it’s fresh. Practically twitching. I’m almost positive they have a nest in the basement, and they just go down there with a cleaver anytime someone orders the mirelurk special.”

“Say that a little louder, I’m sure it’s not the kind of thing people get thrown out for.” Isaac watches as D gently turns his hand over, palm up, and strokes a thumb over the veins in his wrist. “Mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“Taking advantage,” D says. “I figure if you minded, you’d have murdered me with the salad fork by now.”

“It’d take a while, that thing’s pretty blunt.”

“So are you.” His fingers move to Isaac’s palm, tracing the lines and crevices. It tickles a bit, but not in a bad way. Not enough to make him stop. It’s contact, touch from someone who doesn’t want to hurt him. The last time that happened-

Isaac feels the ghost of Deacon’s hand on his cheek, and swallows.

“Funny,” D says absently, dragging his knuckles up Isaac’s palm. “Someone’s gentle with you, and you’re so shocked you don’t know _what_ to do about it. Seriously. It’s like…Irma’s got this cat she keeps in The Memory Den, it hates everyone. Likes to go for the ankles. But if you take your time and rub its ears the right way, it’ll climb into your lap and go to sleep there. Totally incapacitated.”

“I’m surprised nobody’s tried to eat it yet.” He should pull his hand back. He’s not sure what D wants from this, what he’s trying to gain. There has to be something. Everyone wants something. Doesn’t matter if his palm tingles under the other man’s fingers, and he feels the knot of tension under his ribs start to unwind. He should make it stop.

“I’m not saying I never considered it,” D tells him seriously. “The amount Irma feeds that thing, I could get a fantastic stew out of it. Which any partner of _mine_ would be privileged to eat, by the way, because I’m an excellent cook. But that’s by the by. What I was pointing out with that amusing little anecdote was the fact that you’re a lot more responsive when people aren’t rough with you. Stands to reason that might go both ways, you know? And the moral of the story is…”

“Don’t let anyone hold my hand before a fight?” Isaac laughs at D’s disapproving expression. “Yeah, I hear you. Not saying I agree. But I’m pretty sure my partner would; he’s all about giving people a chance before shooting out their kneecaps.”

“He sounds like a smart man.”

“He’s a lot more than smart, but don’t tell him I told you that.”

“I won’t. _Promise_.” And D is actually tugging on Isaac’s hand, lifting it up to his lips and kissing the scars on his knuckles.

Their food arrives before things can get too strange. Isaac yanks his hand back, curling it into a fist on his thigh. Too late; he can feel the change in his pulse, heartbeat speeding up a fraction. _Calm the fuck down,_ he snarls at it, as if that’ll help. He’s off-balance. Vulnerable. And D is sitting opposite him with satisfaction on his face and an offer in his eyes: if Isaac manages not to fuck up the rest of the meal, then he’s got himself company for the night. If he wants it.

God, he wants it.

Isaac turns his attention to the food for the sake of a distraction. Wasn’t honestly expecting all that much from it, post-war cuisine being what it is. But he looks at his plate and can’t stop a smile.

“Mirelurk steaks in salsa?”

“What can I say?” D shrugs. “It’s a favourite. Better for you than anything with BlamCo on the box, so it’s not like I’m breaking the diet here. Healthy, all-natural ingredients. I’m serious! The rads are totally organic.”

“Sorry, it’s just- my partner’s mentioned this a few times. He’s a fan.”

“He’s on your mind a lot, huh?” There’s something very knowing in D’s expression. “It’s cool, I’m not trying to pry. Tell me everything.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Isaac says pleasantly. D quirks an eyebrow.

“Could do,” he agrees. “But why would I bother when I got you to do it for me?”

“Only if you explain what the hell happened last time.” The steak is well cooked, not an easy thing with mirelurk meat- and he knows that from experience. It’s a matter of broiling out the rubbery texture until you can fool yourself it’s caramelised. Blackening the blubber until it tastes of something more than mutant crab. The salsa helps there. By wasteland standards, this is practically fine dining.

“Good, right?” D says.

Isaac swallows a hunk of steak and scowls across the table. “I’ve had worse. But you know I didn’t come here to talk food, and I have a feeling you didn’t either, so. Cut the crap. Tell me where we stand, because I don’t do mysteries. You went off at me.”

“You pushed,” D retorts. “And insulted the work I do now. As if you’re somehow better than everyone just ‘cause you didn’t grow up in a Brahmin shack on the edge of the Glowing Sea.”

“Neither did you. No…weird appendages. Not enough extra fingers on you.”

D’s lips twitch. “I’ll let you have that one. But you get what I’m saying.”

“Sure,” Isaac says. “I got yelled at down an alleyway by a dude I was jerking off thirty seconds beforehand. Happens all the time in my world. Are you hoping for an encore performance tonight, because I’m not saying I wouldn’t be in. The yelling doesn’t work for me, but your dick is just about nice enough to be worth it.”

“And yours is just about nice enough for me to overlook the whole ‘arrogant asshole’ thing you have going on,” D tells him. “Ain’t that just peachy? I sure do love it when we see eye to eye. My place or yours? You’re shacked up at the old Rexford, right? Nice.”

“It’s not bad.” For a moment, Isaac imagines taking his friend back to the hotel room. The look on Deacon’s face when he inevitably walks in at the worst possible moment. Now _that_ would be a memorable conversation. And possibly the end of their tentative friendship. “Where do you live?”

D gestures vaguely with his fork. “Hancock’s got a few warehouses he leases room in to city employees. It’s not much, but it’s home. Guess I could show you.”

“Are you going to yell at me afterwards?” Isaac can’t help but ask. “No pressure. I just like to scope out a situation before I jump right in.”

“Since _when_?”

“Yeah, alright. I’ll grant you that.”

“That’s right, roll over and accept my victory,” D says cheerfully. “I’m not going to spend the rest of the evening gloating, I _promise_.”

“Sometimes, you sound so much like my partner it’s not even funny.” Isaac reaches across the table and steals a forkful of D’s salsa. He hasn’t actually finished his own, but it’s about making a point here. He doesn’t roll over for _anyone_.

Well. He does. Just not that easily.

“Is this you marking your territory?” D asks as Isaac goes for a second helping of his salsa. “Jerk. Though I guess it’s better than peeing on things to make them yours. Also, I’m a little concerned about this thing you have going on for your partner? You’re into him, pal. Obsessed. Kind of starting to wonder if I’m just the stand-in for a guy who knows better than to get involved with the loose cannon from Vault-Tec’s basement. I’m just not sure you like me for _me_ , you know?”

Isaac gives him an incredulous look. Steals the rest of his salsa. “Because we have a great relationship track record. We meet up in a bar and screw somewhere convenient, and then we go our separate ways. No, I don’t _like_ you. I don’t know your real name. I don’t know _anything_ about you.”

“You know a lot more than you think. You’re just too self-obsessed to notice anything that isn’t about you.” D cuts up the last of his mirelurk, pointedly trying to mop up the sad remnants of salsa on his plate. Sighing and throwing Isaac what he probably imagines is a reproachful look. It doesn’t work; he’s smiling.

“Call me names if you want, but you’re the one that keeps coming back,” Isaac tells him.

“So do you.”

“I‘m just here to indulge my thing for redheads.” That coaxes an actual laugh out of D, and a well-aimed kick under the table.

“Because you’ve been so subtle about that,” D says. “Joke’s on you: I keep coming back because I prefer my gentlemen blond. How does it feel to be mutually exploited, huh, pal? That’s icky. We should both seek professional help. Now surrender the salsa before one of us gets hurt.”

“Won’t be me.”

“I know,” D says. “That’s why I’m giving you this generous opportunity to share your ill-gotten gains out of the kindness of your heart. I’m great like that. Come on. Let’s look at this as a logic problem, yeah? Like, say you had five cakes, and a real good friend of yours asked you to share one-”

“Then I’d have five cakes and a corpse,” Isaac says. “Easy. What’s the next problem?”

But he shares his salsa. Pretends he doesn’t notice D stealing the rest of his steak on top of that, which means he’s either whipped beyond belief, or possibly he’s grown as a person since leaving Vault 111. The latter is unlikely, the former just depressing. He tells himself he just wasn’t hungry anymore, and leaves it at that.

“So I was thinking,” D says, pushing his plate away. “It’s a nice night out. Quiet. What say you and me take a walk in the moonlight, maybe hold hands, maybe take pot shots at muties from above the front gates? It’ll be super romantic. You ain’t seen nothin’ until you’ve seen Goodneighbor by moonlight.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait for someone to try and harvest my organs down an alleyway,” Isaac says wryly. “Good times all around.”

“Drifters gotta put _something_ in that communal soup pot,” D agrees. “I hear the pancreas makes good pâté. Word of mouth, I swear. And the mouth in question wasn’t even mine.”

They pay for dinner and leave, and if it’s not quite hand in hand, it’s close. D’s fingers brush Isaac’s wrist as they step out into the street. And the evening really is a quiet one. Uncanny, for Goodneighbor, but Isaac finds it doesn’t bother him too much. He’s not itching to unholster a gun for protection. It’s not that kind of evening.

He glances over at D, and gets a smile in return.

“Hey there, handsome,” says his strange friend. “What’s an upstanding gentleman like yourself doing in a rough town like this? Someone might try take advantage.”

“Here’s hoping,” Isaac tells him. And he sees the way the other man turns towards him, the _go for it_ tilt to his chin; stepping in close, he cups D’s jaw in one hand. Glances down at D’s mouth and catches the flick of his tongue as he licks his lips. _I can take a hint,_ Isaac thinks.

He’s going for a kiss when the gunshots start.

“What the-” Isaac spins around, unslinging his shotgun; pushing D behind him as he does. He can hear the soft _snick_ of a gun being drawn at his back.

The close-packed Goodneighbor buildings trap sound and throw it back, and gunfire echoes in confusing ways. The shooter isn’t right next to him, but at the other end of the street. And for a moment he can’t make out what’s going on in the sudden crowd of torn and faded tuxedos, clustered around something on the pavement.

“Sammy!” someone screams, and Isaac hisses under his breath. _Better not be something fucking personal,_ he thinks, taking a few steps towards the action. _I’m not getting involved in a bar fight, or someone getting shot up by their fuckbuddy’s husband. None of my goddamn business._

“He’s a synth!” says one of the Neighborhood Watch ghouls, and Isaac feels his heart skip a beat. “Synth impostor, I’ll swear on my life! Finish him off, Ham, ‘fore he can tell those Institute fuckers all our secrets!”

_Synth._

Well, that changes things somewhat.

Isaac is nobody’s hero, except in the anti- sense. Never has been; whatever the war propaganda used to say, it wasn’t heroes wearing T-51 armour. You don’t waste that kind of power on a clean-cut do-gooder. The lethal stuff went to the soldiers who’d use it as it was meant for. And boy, did he use his.

He’s not a hero.

But he _is_ Team Railroad, if only for the moment, and that comes with certain expectations he’s not ready to disappoint. Deacon wouldn’t like it, for starters. And Isaac wouldn’t be too impressed with himself if he walked away from a fight just because he found himself drastically outnumbered. He’s almost certainly not outgunned. He _knows_ his weapons are in better shape than those toys the Neighborhood Watch carry around, not in the least because he has a thing for modifying his favourite guns beyond recognition. He could afford to step in. It’d be stupid, but that’s never stopped him.

A hand on his shoulder pulls him back as he makes to stride into the middle of things.

“Don’t,” D says in his ear.

“What?” Isaac glances over his shoulder. He’s tense, adrenaline starting to flood his system, and that’s going to fuck his aim up like nothing else. If this fight is happening, he needs to get started. Ghouls make for mean opponents on the best of days, and worse in the blue-orange dusk light.

Bleeding out on the street, he can just make out the synth start pleading for his life. They need to _move_.

D’s eyes are wide, darting from Isaac to the disaster up ahead. “You can’t be here. No, listen to me. You’re an outsider. You get yourself involved, the whole neighborhood will come howling for your blood, and I don’t care how good you are in a fight; you can’t kill them all.”

“Them?” Isaac asks. “Not _us_?”

“ _Leave_ ,” D orders- and it is an order. The tone is unmistakable. Isaac bristles. “I’ll handle this; that’s my job around here, or one of them. I’ll do what I can to get that synth out, but I can’t do that with you hovering over me, and not if I’m worried you might open fire at any moment. You have to leave. Go back to the Rexford and stay out of trouble until I send a message.”

So he works for the Railroad. A tourist, or an informant, maybe. A sympathizer. Isaac registers the new information in the back of his mind, pushing it aside to look at later. When he’s not about to start a war with an entire town.

“Shoot the synth!” a woman shouts, and D’s expression twists.

“Please,” he says. “You have to trust me. We both go over there, that synth is dead. If it’s just me, there’s a very slim chance I might be able to get him out alive. _Isaac_.”

The last part is a whisper; it jars like lightning. It’s the first time D’s used his name.

“Gone,” Isaac says, slinging his shotgun over one shoulder. “Ball’s in your court, D. Do…whatever it is you do, but do it _fast_.”

He gets a tight nod in return, and then D is pushing him towards a side street, turning away and striding towards the fallen synth and the gunmen standing over him.

Isaac leaves. It goes against every instinct in his body; his muscles tense, trigger finger twitching, and every step feels like a mistake. He’s not a coward. He doesn’t run away from a cause once he’s sworn to it, and that robot back there needed help.

Worse still, he left D to handle a bad situation alone. Tempers running high, guns loaded. One man steps into the middle of that to plead mercy for the enemy…

 _He’s going to get himself killed,_ Isaac thinks, horrified for reasons he doesn’t want to explore. Up ahead, the Hotel Rexford looms, and D’s orders are fresh in his mind, but following unwanted orders isn’t something that comes easy to him at the best of times. _It’s going to be a bloodbath, and I let him walk into it_. He turns back.

The shots are shockingly loud, even streets away. Two of them. And afterwards, silence.

By the time Isaac gets back to the scene of the shooting, he’s far too late. Loses his way several times in the unlit alleys, and then hits the back of a growing crowd come to watch the entertainment they can’t get on TV these days.

He has to hand it to the Neighborhood Watch; they’re fucking thorough. The corpses are gone already, though the ground is smeared and bloody.

“Who got shot?” Isaac asks. “Who died, how many people? Fucking _answer_ me, someone!” Nobody does. And however hard he looks, there are no familiar faces in the restless, hungry crowd. He’s on his own again.

Minutes or hours later, he stumbles back to the Rexford. Pushes open the door to his room. He’s expecting silence, darkness. Space to lick the wounds under his skin.

Deacon looks up from the bed closest to the door. He has the lamp on, a book in his lap. His expression is grim.

Something loosens inside Isaac’s ribs; a hard knot of tension he hadn’t realised he was cradling. Whatever else is going on out there, at least his partner is safe.

“You heard?” he asks, and the other man nods stiffly.

“I was down there,” Deacon says. He closes his book with fingers that shake.

Isaac slides the shotgun off his shoulder. “One little synth, all on his own, no weapons or anything. I can see why Hancock’s people got so freaked out, that dude looked just deadly.”

“Those…ignorant _fucks_ ,” Deacon snarls, and Isaac twitches at the sudden aggression. “What, they think a synth chooses the person they’re going to abduct and imitate? Like, maybe they go for a nice Sunday stroll and do eeny, meeny, miney, mo? Spin around three times and point at someone? _Goddammit_. That synth needed help, and it was in the middle of neutral territory. Goodneighbor’s supposed to be safe for the Railroad. Our runners should have spotted the danger days ago and sent for an agent, and nobody said a fucking word. Nice going, guys! Pat yourselves on the back, you all did great!” He tosses the book aside; it hits the floor with a solid _thud_.

Isaac places his shotgun on the free bed before perching on the edge of Deacon’s. It takes him several attempts to unbuckle his shoulder holster, and then only because Deacon leans forward to lend a hand.

“Did you see it?” he asks as Deacon deftly slides the leather holster off. “The shooting? I wanted to jump in-”

“You’d have made things worse,” Deacon says.

“I know,” Isaac tells him. “I had…a friend. I was out with a friend. He told me to stay clear, and I knew it was a fucking stupid idea, but I let him go handle it anyway. I don’t know where he is now. I heard two shots.”

“Handsome guy, red hair, works for Hancock?” Deacon manages a half smile as Isaac jerks to look at him. “Stupid bastard. He’ll be fine, though I bet his pride hurts worse than a stingwing bite on the behind right now. Turns out there’s not much one man can do to shut down a mob, no matter _how_ charming he might be. He tried, but it just wasn’t good enough. That synth was dead and buried the moment Goodneighbor spotted it before the Railroad.”

Isaac runs a hand through his hair. He repeats Deacon’s words back to himself, just to check he heard right: _he’ll be fine_.

“Does he work for you?” He turns back to Deacon, who still hasn’t lost the sunglasses, though the bedside lamp barely sheds enough light to make out his features. “I don’t know anyone else stupid enough to put their neck on the line for a synth like that. Stands to reason he has to run with your people.”

Deacon doesn’t answer. But he helps with Isaac’s armour, fingers pulling buckles loose like he could do it all sleeping- and knowing him, he probably could. He’s got it down to an art by now. Buckles and leather, knives sliding free, and his hands never once touch Isaac’s skin.

“Get some sleep,” he says at last, when Isaac’s down to a shirt and pants, barefoot on the wooden floor and feeling twice as naked as he really is. “It’s going to be a long-ass day tomorrow, what with us needing to hit up HQ and report another tragic failure to add to the list. We actually have a list, did I ever show you? No? Remind me to do that, it’s pretty frickin’ spectacular. Could wallpaper Diamond City in our list of epic fails.”

“If you’re going to be depressing, then yeah, I’m passing out for a few hours. You want to keep wallowing for a bit longer, that’s your call.”

Isaac turns off the bedside lamp and crawls under the cold sheets. A gun beneath his pillow, another on the nightstand. Row of knives embedded in the wooden floor at his bedside. No one sleeps deeply in Goodneighbor tonight.

He tugs the covers up to his neck and exhales slowly. All in all, not exactly the way he was hoping the evening would end.

 _Didn’t even get a goodnight kiss,_ he thinks wryly. _How come Hancock’s ghouls couldn’t wait another thirty seconds before pumping that synth full of lead?_

“Tell me something happy,” Deacon says in the darkness, and Isaac sighs.

“You’re asking the wrong guy.”

“How was your evening, pre-murder of an unarmed innocent?” There’s an edge to Deacon’s tone that suggests he isn’t going to quit. “Go anywhere nice? Kill someone in creatively disgusting ways? Have any fun?”

“I think I had a date,” Isaac says. He squints into the shadows, but he might as well be blind for all he can make out of Deacon’s expression. “Mirelurk steaks, and he stole half my salsa.”

“Did you steal his first?”

Isaac laughs. “Guilty. But I don’t think he cared.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Isaac wonders if he made a mistake. If he should have left well enough alone.

And then Deacon speaks. “No,” he says quietly. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t. He’d have just been happy to spend some quiet time with you. No missions or bullets flying overhead. Just…you. And salsa. Good food, good company. Must have been nice, to pretend things were all okay for a while.”

“It was,” Isaac says. It’s the truth; he thinks of D’s hand on his wrist, touching Isaac gentle and teasing him about how confused it made him. It’ll be a while before he gets that out of his head. He can’t understand why it stuck with him. “Is this you trying to hint that you want a break? Don’t say that where Dez can hear you.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Deacon says.

He sounds so tired.

“Hey,” Isaac says. “If you want a few days off, I won’t say anything. You want to do some sunbathing, read a book, whatever you do for fun, we can always go back to Sanctuary. Last thing anyone needs right now is for you to burn out.” He knows what that looks like, what it sounds like. A failure that kicks your feet out from under you, and dragging yourself back upright requires more fucks than you had banked for emergencies. Far from home, a soldier fades fast. And he’s never seen any evidence that Deacon has anything resembling a home.

“No time for vacations, chief,” Deacon tells him. “Can’t do that, it’s our busy season! What would the customers say if our standard of service dropped due to staff shortages, huh? You watch, we’ll hit up HQ with our news and they’ll throw the Augusta Safehouse recon mission at us.”

“Thought Carrington was taking that one.”

“He delegates,” Deacon says darkly. “Wish I could work out how he did that, it’d really cut down on my micromanagement issues.”

“I tend to plaster mine with C4 and sit back for the fireworks show.” Isaac blinks in the darkness. His night vision is adjusting; he’s almost certain he can make out Deacon, turned on his side to talk. “Okay, so, no vacation. Next time we’re somewhere civilized, how about you let me buy you dinner? What did you call it? Good food, good company?”

“Can we get ice cream after?” Deacon asks, and Isaac snorts with laughter.

“Two scoops, max. And I’m not shelling out for chocolate sauce on top.”

“Two scoops with sprinkles, I’ll concede the chocolate sauce. That’s my final offer.”

“Let me sleep on it and I’ll get back to you in the morning,” Isaac says. He’s really feeling the adrenaline crash, and the wave of disappointment he’s been holding at bay because it’s kind of fucking selfish to dwell on. A synth died, and that sucks, but worse still is the way it ruined a pretty decent evening.

 _What a fucking mess,_ Isaac thinks. _Fixed things up with D, and then this happens. And I almost lost him._ He’s uncomfortable with the wording on that, even inside his head. He flinches away from the part of himself that wants to throw his clothes back on and hit the streets, hunt his friend down. That’s a one-way road he wouldn’t be coming back from, and even if he did he doubts Deacon would be waiting for him.

“Might not be here when you wake up,” Deacon mumbles. Isaac grunts in acknowledgement. “I’m gonna chase down some of my tourists, find out what happened to that synth’s body. If I can steal his component, we’ll give it a decent burial back at HQ. It’s not much, but Glory says it helps.”

 _God damn you_ , Isaac thinks. _One of the last few good men in the Commonwealth, and look who you’re saddled with. Go find someone who deserves you_.

“You didn’t fail anyone, Deacon,” he says. “Don’t feel like you have something to make up for.”

“Maybe I’m trying to make up for humanity in general,” Deacon says, and Isaac is seized by an urge to reach across the narrow gap between their beds. He wants to find Deacon’s hand in the dark; touch his wrist, count the beats of his pulse, stroke his palm so gentle it’ll stop his brain. Stop his guilt, and whatever else is eating him that he won’t admit to.

Like a bullet, only crueler. There’s nobody alive in the world that should have to suffer Isaac’s best attempts at _kindness_. He closes his eyes and doesn’t reach for Deacon.

He’s asleep before he knows it. When he wakes, Deacon is already packing.

“Time to leave,” he says without looking up, as Isaac tries to force his eyes open. “I got the synth component, but they’ll be looking for it. Hancock wants proof they didn’t actually murder the real Sammy, poor bastard.”

“Okay. Great. Good fucking morning.” Isaac reaches for his pants.

“Got something for you,” Deacon says. “It was downstairs at reception.” He tosses a folded scrap of paper over his shoulder; it lands unerringly in Isaac’s lap.

His name is scrawled on the outside in barely legible charcoal. Isaac opens it up and hisses.

_Should have let you come with me after all. A scarred maniac with a shotgun might actually have saved that synth’s life, or maybe not. Guess we’ll never know now. Sorry our evening got ruined, doubly so because my plans involved you bending me over Mayor Hancock’s desk and nailing me like DIY just came back into fashion. Rain check, y/y? Don’t get too violent out there, and come back to me in one piece._

_D_

_P.S. Bring me a present (wipe the blood off first, you savage)._

“Ready to go?” Deacon asks. “Also, if I swore I absolutely didn’t read that on the way, would you believe me? I’m thinking maybe nah.”

“I plead the fifth.” Isaac tucks the letter into an inside pocket of his jacket, making a point to avoid whatever expression Deacon’s hiding behind his sunglasses. He’s too elated to feel guilty. “Any ideas about what to get a guy for a ‘sorry our date got wrecked and a synth died in front of you’ present?”

“You’re so dense sometimes I want to smack my head against the nearest wall until I attain blessed unconsciousness,” Deacon says. “Only, Carrington says I shouldn’t oughta do that, ‘cause I don’t got enough brain cells to spare. Not that I listen to him. I don’t think that man’s ever been to medical school.”

“Are we skipping town or not?” Rucksack over one shoulder, Isaac opens the door just far enough to stick his head out into the corridor. Area’s clear; he shoves the door wide and beckons for Deacon to go first. “After you. Promise I’ll avenge you if you get brutally murdered in the lobby.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” Deacon says dryly, and leads the way to the exit.


	6. Chapter 6

Epiphany strikes, as it usually does, at the worst possible moment. That’s always been a theme where Isaac’s concerned. This time shouldn’t be any different from the rest, and yet-

Wading through the smoking remains of Augusta Safehouse, a few dozen raider corpses in his wake and a heartbreaking final holotaped report weighing heavy in his pocket, he can probably be forgiven for a lapse in perception. It’s been a long day. Long _week_ , when all’s said and done. It’s not that he minds the mission itself; staying active is good, and Railroad work is a vast improvement on making nice to hostile settlements in the hopes that they’ll join up with team Minutemen, if he’s lucky.

Isaac doesn’t _make nice_. That’s what he keeps Deacon around for, in the same way that Deacon keeps _him_ for his affinity with large guns and general aura of barely restrained asskicking. Probably.

He’s not at his best, post-adrenaline crash, and the survivors he’d hoped to find (for once, just this fucking once, even if it was just one or two) are long dead, stripped of everything but their skins. Might not have been, if they’d come sooner. If the Railroad’s fetish for compartmentalizing every goddamn thing didn’t mean that he doesn’t hear about missions until someone higher up deigns to tell him.

Isaac’s angry; seething with it. And Deacon is the one to spot the Deathclaw.

“Stop,” he hisses, grabbing Isaac’s shoulder- and that in itself says that it’s serious, because by now he knows better than to do something that stupid while Isaac’s armed and wired up to kill anything still breathing. “Down there, what is that?”

“I don’t see anything.”

They’re standing on what used to be the second floor, before most of the floor caved in. Now it’s a balcony over a pit, a rubbish dump for raiders and a mass grave for the last of Augusta’s agents. Isaac blinks down at the dirt. Nothing moves.

“No, wait, over there in the shadows, see?” Deacon crouches by his side, one hand half raised to point without drawing attention. He speaks in a whisper.

“Angle’s all wrong,” Isaac hisses back. “What am I looking at? Raiders? Muties? Clowns?”

Deacon gives a sigh of frustration. His fingers twitch, and then he surrenders; grabs Isaac’s chin and turns his head, pointing with his free hand. “Worse.”

“Worse than clowns?” Isaac keeps his head perfectly still. Half his attention is on the hunt, scanning the grey walls and grey dirt for signs of hostiles, laser rifle balanced on one of his knees. The other half is all on Deacon. His hand on Isaac’s chin, his proximity: they crouch together and breathe in sync, and then Isaac spots the shadow on the wall.

“Deathclaw?”

“My favourite thing,” Deacon breathes. “I’m always disappointed when a mission doesn’t end with me naked mud-wrestling Godzilla’s granny twice removed.”

“It’s not that big,” Isaac says. “We’ve fought worse. I could probably just jump down there and handle it, if you want to sit back and watch the show. Do we have any popcorn?”

“That,” Deacon tells him, “Is the stupidest goddamn thing you’ve suggested all day. You’d die, and then I’d have to find someone new to rehearse my Shakespearian monologues on. You know how long it takes to train people up for that? I have to teach ‘em how to pronounce ‘encore’ and everything, it’s weeks of hard work.”

Isaac leans a little further over the edge, until he can make out the shadow of a scaly leg, a tail twitching cat-like. It knows there’s company nearby. It’s just waiting to see if they’ll make the first move.

_I see you,_ he thinks, sliding his rucksack off his back. _You picked the wrong safehouse to shack up in._ He leans a little further, looking for the headshot, and then Deacon grabs for his shoulder.

“Too far,” he hisses. “What, are you going for the swan dive? You want to kill Barnie the Dinosaur with the shock value of a perfect double flip and belly flop finish? If you slip-”

“I won’t.”

“ _Isaac._ ”

And in the end, that’s all it takes. The hand on his shoulder and the man who hisses his name like a prayer and a curse, and pulls him away from the violence.

Isaac blinks; for a moment, he’s back in Goodneighbor, with Sammy on the ground and the ghouls all around him. Someone is saying his name. First time he’s said it. And, at last, Isaac understands why it took so long.

_Oh boy_ , he thinks, backing away from the ledge. He shrugs Deacon’s hand off his shoulder, stepping carefully around littered chunks of wood and concrete until his back hits a solid wall. His laser rifle gets placed on the ground at his feet; he’s not going to need it.

Instead, he draws his favourite .44.

“Uh, no,” Deacon says. He’s still by the edge, glancing from Isaac to the Deathclaw down below. “You’re not going down there with _that_ peashooter, and I don’t care if you modified it to set things on fire. Deathclaw. Death. Claw. It has the word ‘death’ in its name, followed by the word ‘claw’, and neither of those things promises marshmallows and gingerbread and hugs from grandma.”

“I fucking hate marshmallows,” Isaac says. He sounds so calm. He’d be proud of himself, under any other circumstances. “C’mere for a second?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

Deacon doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even bother to bring a gun; he leaves it on the ground by the edge, and comes to Isaac unarmed. Like it never even occurs to him that there might be danger in the air. Like he doesn’t even realise just how blown his cover is.

It’s either a truly spectacular amount of arrogance, or an equal measure of trust.

Isaac waits until Deacon comes within reaching distance; his own gun is held loosely by his side. No sense in giving unneeded warning. And now he looks, now he _knows_ what to look for, he can see what was there all along. The care Deacon takes to shave every day, sometimes several times a day- because if he didn’t, the stubble would show through red. The wigs, which have been fitting oddly over the last few weeks, because Deacon’s been letting his hair grow out by millimeters. Makes sense; the guy he was conning had a thing for redheads.

He changed his voice for the part. Made it lower, switched his accent to something more in line with Isaac’s. Something to make him feel more at ease, maybe. It’s not much of a comfort. Sickening, to imagine Deacon practicing the sound and intonation on his own, until he could be sure he’d pull it off. Just another costume.

His hands, at least, should have been familiar. They would have been, if Isaac hadn’t been making a serious effort not to look at them. To keep things from getting awkward if Deacon wanted to draw the line at friendship.

_I’m an idiot,_ he thinks, genuinely amazed by himself. _And he could have killed me at any time_.

“Isaac?” Deacon says. “Earth to Isaac? Are you having an out of body moment? Do I need to start communicating in Morse code? Seems like something you’d respond to, knowing what you’re like-”

And Isaac snaps. He lunges, fast, and Deacon’s reflexes are really something special, but he’s not pre-bombing. He’s spent his life in a wasteland, not a war zone. He doesn’t get a chance to do much more than twitch as Isaac yanks the sunglasses off his face.

“Hi there,” Isaac says pleasantly. D blinks at him. “How’re you doing? I haven’t really seen you around recently, you been busy?”

“Okay,” says…someone. “First of all, that was kind of uncalled for. You could have just asked me, instead of violating my all-important personal space bubble for the sake of being dramatic. Because now I’m uncomfortable _and_ totally unprepared to have this conversation. I had cue cards for it, somewhere in my rucksack maybe? If you’ll just let me get them-”

“Check this out,” Isaac says, and throws the sunglasses. It’s a decent toss; they arch out over the ledge, smashing audibly as they hit the ground below. And the Deathclaw snarls.

It’s a few seconds before the rumble stops, a vibration in the inner ear that always seems to light up some kind of truly primitive instinct, or imprint of instinct. Memory in the DNA, maybe. A reminder of an age before gunpowder and uranium. It’s said that well over half the people who meet a Deathclaw in the wild never even try running. Something in them just shuts down. Hope, maybe.

“You make one wrong move, and I’ll throw you in too,” Isaac says, and means it. “I have some questions for you. Can’t promise I’m going to let you live when I’m done with them, either. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see. For starters, what the fuck am I supposed to call you?” He raises the gun. Takes aim.

“Deacon is fine.” There’s no laughter this time. Deacon’s blue eyes are shuttered, wary in a way Isaac’s never seen before. “Awkward as this is, I guess there’s no chance you’ll let me move the conversation to somewhere a bit less exposed?”

“Fuck you.”

“I figured. Okay. Okay, let’s just…try not to get ahead of ourselves. I can explain.”

“You always can,” Isaac says. “But most of your explanations are just words on the wind. What can you tell me that’ll convince me I don’t need to kill you right now?”

“No pressure,” Deacon says. He sounds almost wry. “But you know what, you’re right. It’s past time I let you in on what was going on; shouldn’t have let the game run this long anyway. If you don’t kill me, Dez just might. Look. Here’s the thing.” Deacon reaches up for the wig. He tugs it off, tossing it over to his abandoned rucksack. “You’re a bad person, but I just might be worse. At least you don’t try to hide what you are.” He lifts a hand slowly, so Isaac can see there’s nothing in it. Runs it through his dark red hair, damp with sweat and whatever oil he’s been using to keep it flat under the wig.

Isaac can’t help but follow the movement with his eyes. He watches Deacon ruffle his own hair up, drag it out of the strict style he must force it into daily; a few strands fall across his forehead. And he keeps going. The changes are myriad. Barely noticeable alone, but the sum of their parts is a lie Isaac let himself buy into. It’s a slight change in posture; the slouch is tossed aside like the wig, and Deacon stands taller. A change in the way he holds himself. The way he folds his arms, confrontational instead of passive. Layer by layer, the disguise peels free.

It’s so intimate, it’s practically a striptease.

“You’d have caught me a long time ago,” Deacon says. “If you hadn’t been so fucking self-centered. If you ever took a moment to think about something other than yourself.”

There’s nothing accusing in his tone. He states it as fact, like an observation in a mission report. _Scoped the target out for ya, Dez. Early thirties, ex-soldier, blond, and his face is kind of melted but he’s still pretty enough. I’d do him. Or let him do me, whatever floats his love boat. What do you mean, ‘off-topic’, that is a totally valid- fine! Fine. Suit yourself. Pre-war, short temper, small circle of acquaintances that he protects to the exclusion of everyone else, possible sociopath, doesn’t tend to pay attention to things that aren’t about him. We should totally recruit this guy, boss, I’m telling you. It’s about time Glory had someone to compare crazies with._

“That’s valid,” Isaac admits. “I’m…open to the idea that some of this might be on me.” His gun doesn’t waver. Deacon watches him with a mixture of wariness and something a lot more uncomfortable. Might be fear. He hides it well.

“ _Some_?” Deacon asks, and to his credit, his voice doesn’t shake. “I was flaunting the truth so openly I risked arrest for indecent exposure. That is how not subtle I was about it.”

“Maybe I ignored it. Maybe I wanted to believe that, after all the _bullshit_ life’s thrown at me recently, I might actually have found someone I can trust. I figured I was owed something good. Maybe I wanted that to be you.”

“Nobody’s owed anything,” Deacon tells him. “Least of all _good_ things. I could have told you that any day.”

“Why’d you do it?” Isaac shifts his stance, spreading his feet a little wider, bringing up his free hand to balance the one holding the weapon. He can stand like this for hours, if he has to. Whether or not his patience holds out as long as his body remains to be seen.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Am I? How about: you dig up some truth to tell me, or I blow out one of your kneecaps. Nobody really needs two. It’s just excessive.” He’s pretty sure he means it. He hopes he does. The idea that he might not actually be able to follow through on his threats is something he isn’t willing to think about.

_I could do it,_ Isaac tells himself. _I could hurt him. He started all this, but I could finish it._

Deacon seems to consider for a moment before gesturing to a nearby crate. “Mind if I sit down? I took some fire back there, someone clipped my leg. I was going to have you take a look at it once we got out, but uh…yeah. The mood you’re in right now, you might just blow my entire leg off. That ain’t fair. I like this leg, it’s my favourite.”

Isaac gives him a curt nod. He watches Deacon lower himself onto the crate- and he is moving gingerly, where he wasn’t before. The injury might be a lie. It also might not. Wouldn’t be the first time Deacon’s been hurt and not mentioned. He hates being fussed over almost as much as Isaac hates fussing. They’re good like that. They fit each other.

“You want a Stimpack?” Isaac asks. He doesn’t mean to. Force of habit makes him offer, though he knows they’re running low again, and nobody sane offers medical supplies to an enemy.

The look on Deacon’s face almost makes it worthwhile. “Jesus, make up your mind, would you?” he says. “You keep blowing hot and cold, pal, I’m having a hard time working out where we stand. What _are_ we, Isaac? Huh? You can’t keep leading me on like this.”

“Tell your fucking story.”

“’Twas a dark and stormy night.” Deacon settles back on the crate. He keeps his hands carefully visible the whole time. “Or maybe a bright and sunny day, I get those things mixed up sometimes. It’s all the same when you don’t give a damn either way. Let’s just call it…a day. It was another day in the Commonwealth, and this Vault in the middle of nowhere opened up and regurgitated the worst mistake the Institute ever made, ever. It was a pretty disgusting process, I won’t give you the details. So much slime. Oozing. And I can’t begin to describe the smell-”

Isaac’s had enough.. He’s not even aware of just how angry he is, how much it’s boiling up inside him, until suddenly he can’t handle any more of Deacon’s _lies_. He lashes out.

The butt of the .44 strikes Deacon’s face with a _crunch_ , snapping his head back. Splits his lip, drags a startled cry out of him. He lifts a hand to shield himself; any further response is cut off by a sandpaper snarl from somewhere one floor down.

“Quiet in the cheap seats,” Isaac calls, when his ears stop ringing. “I’m getting to you next. Just gonna need you to wait a few more minutes.” He shakes out his hand, wincing. Got the angle wrong. It looks so much easier to do in the movies.

“Do you know how hard it is to go full confessional on a guy with the attention span of a goldfish?” Deacon snaps at him. More high-pitched than usual; his eyes are wide. Blood wells up across his lips. “Ow! If you wanted the abridged version, you could have just said!”

“I believe I just did.”

“ _Asshole_. Fine. We knew about Vault eleventy-one, I’ve been keeping an eye on it for years now, despite strenuous objections from Dez and Carrington’s constant complaining. I was waiting for you. Hoping you’d be what we needed.”

“Which is what?”

“I don’t know,” Deacon says flatly. He swipes a hand at his mouth, smearing blood across his knuckles. “I thought I did. I had all these ideas, all these- but you’re none of the things I was planning for, and that just goes to show that the best laid plans all go to watery custard when you add too much milk. Dez wanted a hero. Far as she’s concerned, she has one.”

“And you disagree.” _You’re the observant one,_ Isaac thinks. His wrist is protesting from the attack, a deep-set ache he tries to mend by flexing his fingers. It doesn’t stop. He shouldn’t have lost his temper in the first place. It was a stupid lapse in concentration, and for what? The flash of terror on Deacon’s face is something he never needed to see.

He’s sickened by the whole situation. By the way he’s totally failing to handle it.

“I don’t know what you are,” Deacon says. He dabs at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. It doesn’t help. “I don’t think you’re a monster. Maybe, given time, I can bring you around to my way of thinking. Calm you down a little. But then again, the more I travel with you, the more I wonder if you’re not trying to do the same damn thing to me. Not that it matters. Look, long story short: when you left the Vault, I knew within days. Followed you around a bit, playing the friendly shadow, stealth-feeding your dog so he wouldn’t bark at me. And by the time you’d carved your bloody path to Goodneighbor, I knew I had to actually talk to you. The suspense was driving me nuts.”

One floor down, the Deathclaw is pacing, its tail scraping sharp on scraps of metal. It can hear them talking; can’t reach them, but senses that they only have one way down. It’ll wait. Those things are very good at waiting.

Isaac considers finding a seat. His feet are starting to hurt. Nothing he’s not accustomed to, either pre-war or now, but that doesn’t mean he seeks it out. It’s been a long fucking day. He glances around for something suitable to perch on.

“Here.” Deacon twists where he’s sitting, hooking a toe around a nearby crate. Carefully, his hands raised, he nudges it towards Isaac. “Least I can do, considering you spent most of the day clearing out a safehouse for my people. Don’t forget to go hassle Carrington into giving you some kind of compensation. If I’m not around to do it.”

“Keep talking.” Isaac sits, resting his elbows on his knees. He lowers the gun. Holds it in his lap, an easy draw if he needs it. He’s pretty sure he sees Deacon’s shoulders slump a little.

“I _never_ wanted to hurt you,” he says, abruptly intense. “That wasn’t the goal. There’s nothing sacred around anymore, but I’ll swear on any ruined monument you can name that I never meant for this to happen. All I wanted was to talk to you. Scope you out. I didn’t think we’d…” he gestures helplessly, and Isaac nods.

“I hear you.”

“The first time was for the Railroad.”

“I’m not arguing,” Isaac says. “I get that part. Shit, I’d have done the exact same thing. The sex was just something that happened, and I get that too. What I want to know is, how the fuck do you justify the _rest_?”

“First time was for the cause,” Deacon says doggedly. “Then I met you forreals, when you just wandered into our top secret HQ and- detonated. Nobody got out of that unscathed. Maybe they don’t know it yet, maybe they’ll never notice, but I did. I knew right away you were going to be the change Gandhi would have wanted. Only, totally the opposite, because, you know, pacifist. Not you, him.”

“Yeah, I figured Gandhi wasn’t the one with the .44 in his lap,” Isaac says.

“Smart man,” Deacon says. “Just so you know, I totally married you for your brains.” Isaac smiles. He can’t help himself.

The whole situation is a mess. D’s face, Deacon’s voice, and even now, the attraction is there, as strong as it ever was. Deacon watches him with sharp blue eyes; Isaac thinks back to stroking his thumb over those red eyelashes, and feels his heart constrict.

_Get it together_ , he thinks. _He lied. That’s what he always does, he lies, and…I knew that all along. He warned me. Every fucking day we spent together, he’s been warning me._

“Tell me about the second time.” The Deathclaw down below is pacing, lashing its tail. Isaac can sympathise.

“I figured you’d know,” Deacon says. He raises his hands, a _what the fuck_ gesture. “I was…absolutely positive you’d realise once I started pointedly questioning you about what you’d been up to. Kudos to you, though; you didn’t reveal anything about the Railroad. That’s good. Sign of a good agent. Whatever Carrington says, I sure do know how to pick ‘em.”

“So you did the right thing, and told me the truth, right there and then,” Isaac says. “Because offering to blow me in an alley would have been unprofessional and morally not okay. Oh, wait.”

“You said my _fucking name_ ,” Deacon practically howls. Isaac winces at the volume.

“It was an accident.”

“It was hands down the most awkward position I’ve ever found myself in, counting that one time with the rubber duck and the fluffy pink handcuffs.” Deacon leans forward, clenching his fists on his knees. There’s some real anger on his face. Genuine rage, and it’s not exactly pleasant, but it makes a change from the fear. “I figured we’d cuddle through the afterglow and I’d murmur an apology into your ear, and you’d be…grumpy, but understanding, and then I’d take you out somewhere nice to make it up to you. Steal one of Tom’s prototype weapons and set you loose on a raider camp, something like that. You should see some of the weird shit that man designs. He’s got a gun that fires goddamn _teddy bears_ at people. And it actually _kills them_. Swear to god.”

“So that’s why you went off at me in the alley,” Isaac says. “I couldn’t work out what I’d said wrong. That explains…so much.”

He’s starting to feel a little ashamed of himself, if he’s being honest. It doesn’t happen all that much. He’s not a fan of the sensation. He let himself be lied to, deceived in a way that won’t do much to boost his street cred as a man to be feared and respected. Though it’s hard to maintain any of _that_ while he’s traveling with Deacon.

They have fun, though. More fun than he ever had pre-war, even on the bloodiest Anchorage days. Deacon might be the only person he knows who doesn’t take him even a little bit seriously.

_Who’s gonna laugh at me if I kill him?_ Isaac wonders. He’s staring down at the gun in his lap, and has been for several minutes. He looks up to find Deacon watching him. It’s an unforgivable lapse in concentration; he knows how quiet Deacon is when it suits him. Moves like a ghost, kills without warning. And all he’s doing is sitting there. It’s almost like he _wants_ Isaac to make the choice for him.

He hasn’t once pleaded for his life.

“The third time,” Isaac says, and Deacon bows his head.

“Yeah,” he says distantly. “That…that wasn’t good. That was the opposite of good. Can’t even justify it to you, pal. If I had a list of things that I shouldn’t ever have done, the third time is right up there, along with failing to notice the mole at the Switchboard, and impersonating a Protectron. Embarrassing, painful, full of unexpectedly bad consequences. Are you really going to make me spell this out, because I kind of feel like it’s a little unnecessary at this juncture-”

“That Deathclaw’s sounding pretty hungry.”

“I just _wanted_ to,” Deacon snaps. “There. Are you happy? Finally, something that you can genuinely blame on me, no guilt required, not that you looked all that guilty to begin with. Yes, I asked you out to dinner so we could hang, stress-free, no work distractions. And, yeah, I was totally intending for the night to end in immoral and probably semi-public shenanigans. One hundred percent guilty, your honor. I fucked up. And on top of it all, that poor, stupid synth picked right then to tangle with Hancock’s guards. And I couldn’t save him.”

“Should have let me come with you,” Isaac says. “I could have taken those ghouls, and you know it. There’s a chance we could have rescued the robot before someone really nasty got involved. You’d have found a way to sneak us all out.”

Deacon shakes his head. “I appreciate the faith, but that wasn’t happening. Synthy Sammy got shot. Does that sound like it’d make a decent title for some depressing children’s book? I could really get my author on here. ‘I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Samm-y am. I will not eat them as a slave, I will not eat them in the grave’. Yeah? Little dark, maybe?”

“Eh. Kids these days are already a fucking mess.”

“Only ones we’ve got,” Deacon says. “Anyway, my point. The synth lost too much blood before we even got there. Closest willing doctor was either Carrington or someone at Diamond City. And on top of all that, I realised that the second I stepped into a firefight, you’d know who I was. You couldn’t work it out over alcohol, or polite, civilized conversation, but once we were dodging bullets…”

“What were you afraid of?” Isaac asks. “That I’d realise and shoot you in the back? Take out all of Hancock’s people and then turn on you?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

They look at each other. A muscle in Deacon’s jaw is twitching, he’s clenched it so tight. He blinks. Keeps his eyes closed a few seconds longer than necessary. And for the first time, Isaac notices the dark patch on his left leg, just below the knee. Could just be shadow. Could be a man bleeding through hastily applied bandages. _I took some fire,_ Deacon told him, and he curses himself for not noticing at the time. For assuming it was just another lie.

“I’m getting you that Stimpack,” Isaac says, standing. He holds the .44 at his side, muzzle facing the ground. “Don’t fucking move.”

“Wouldn’t dare,” Deacon tells him tiredly. “You know, a bullet would be just as effective for pain management. You’re almost as low on ammo as you are on medical supplies. I know. I get up early every morning to search your stuff while you sleep. If you’re gonna shoot me anyway, save the Stimpack. You still have mister Lean, Mean and Green down there to take care of.”

“I think it’s a female,” Isaac says, yanking a side pocket in his rucksack open.

“Even better. She might have _babies_. She might want us to go down there and play patty-cake and tea parties with the kids, while she goes and gets her beauty sleep for a few hours.”

Isaac fishes out a Stimpack. Two left once this is gone; they’re in trouble if either of them takes damage from the monster downstairs. Any other time, the risk would have him grinning. He loves that kind of thing. Danger, adrenaline, bloodshed. Couldn’t possibly be more up his alley.

He’s not really in a grinning mood. “You wrote me that letter,” he says, tugging his rucksack closed, juggling medical supplies and his gun. “In Goodneighbor. I bet you had fun doing that.”

“You were worried,” Deacon says. “Scared, even, perish the thought. Chalk it up as another thing that wasn’t supposed to happen; you weren’t supposed to get so damn attached to Other Deacon. I mean, he wasn’t even that great! Didn’t have my awesome sunglasses, or my impressive hat versatility. _Or_ my aura of Railroad Agent mystery. What did you even see in him?” For a moment his voice drops lower, the accent changing. For a moment, he’s D again.

It’s unnerving, how easy it is for him to switch between the two.

“He didn’t take any of my bullshit,” Isaac says. He approaches slowly with the Stimpack, his eyes tracking Deacon’s every move. “He made me laugh, he was easy to spend time with. And he didn’t tell me to…help out settlements or build fucking defenses, or run all over the Commonwealth looking for dead drops. Only thing he ever wanted from me was something I wanted from him too.”

“So he was a recipe for _me_ , only minus the Railroad and plus a pinch of free sex,” Deacon says, his voice smoothing back out again. Slipping back into his own skin. “Hate to tell you this, pal, but he wasn’t real. I don’t exist without the Railroad.”

“I notice you’re not mentioning the sex.”

“Yeah,” Deacon says. He’s back to staring down at his lap, flexing his fingers like he’s never seen them before. His split lip is no longer pooling with blood, though he keeps dabbing at it with his sleeve. “About that. There’s a policy about workplace fraternization, it’s pretty strict. I should know. I helped write it.”

“Smart. Why would you even do something like that?” The dark patch on Deacon’s jeans is currently the size of Isaac’s open palm, and spreading. They shouldn’t have waited this long to do something about it. And he could just toss the Stimpack to Deacon and make him sort himself out at gun point; that’d be the smart thing to do. He could keep the situation under control, which is one of the most important things to do in battle. Stay in control. If not of the battlefield, then of himself. Maintain discipline.

He never was much good at the _discipline_ part of army life. Shame the States were so desperate for troopers that they overlooked his insubordination issues in favour of his faultless aim. Overlooked his recklessness, because he’d kill on command.

Isaac holsters the gun. And, before he can talk himself out of it, he goes to his knees between Deacon’s open thighs.

Deacon’s head snaps up, wide-eyed and incredulous. “Isaac?”

“You’re bleeding,” Isaac informs him. “What did you use to bind this, newspaper?”

“The latest Publick Occurrences, please don’t tell Piper.” Deacon doesn’t protest as Isaac takes a hold of his wrist, pushing his blood-soaked sleeve back for the syringe. He doesn’t seem to know how to react. “Not that you care, but I personally feel it’s kind of unfair of you to get my hopes up like this if you’re just gonna shoot me once you’re done.”

“I’m still mad.” Isaac presses the plunger down slowly, mindful of Deacon’s bare skin under his knuckles. It’s the first time Deacon’s let him do this. They tend to sort themselves out solo, when the injuries aren’t serious enough to make assistance necessary.

“That’s understandable.”

“I’m not saying I forgive you.”

“Also completely within reason,” Deacon says. He shudders as the Stimpack gets to work, healing up his split lip, spreading slowly through his system. “I screwed you over, man, I get it. I’d tell you I was ashamed, if I thought you’d believe me. But I am. You’re…pretty much the closest friend I got.”

“Must be desperate, if you’re looking to _me_ for friendship,” Isaac says. “I’m not even nice.”

“You are kind of an asshole,” Deacon agrees. “Still the only guy I want at my back. I’ve slept next to you, and that says a lot. I let you see behind the sunglasses. Though I’m definitely going to need a face change, now my cover’s more thoroughly blown than _I_ was, the first time we met. Which, by the way- really excellent. You should be proud. Five gold stars and a fireworks display in your honour. Do you want me to leave?”

“Leave where?” Isaac glances up, but Deacon’s got his eyes closed. He’s breathing slowly, letting the medication get to work on his leg. It’d be faster mid-battle: adrenaline makes for a very good catalyst. Instead, all they can do is wait.

“Do you want me to go back to HQ?” Blindly, one of Deacon’s hands finds Isaac’s shoulder. Strokes up the crook of his neck, his ear, and buries itself in his hair. “Not that I’m trying to be pushy, but it’s kind of looking like you might be letting me live after all. That’s cool, I appreciate it. I’m pretty attached to the living thing. But I can understand why you might want to trade me in for a different model. Someone fluffier, less…backstabby.”

And that’s the million dollar question.

He shouldn’t want to stay, after everything. He feels- he doesn’t know what he’s feeling, only that his insides are tying themselves into knots at the thought of sending Deacon back out on his own. Of going back to Sanctuary or Diamond City alone and begging for someone to put up with his weird for a while. Nick Valentine might be able to handle it. Piper too, if she can overlook the number of people he kills on a daily basis. Preston sure can’t.

Deacon still has a hand in his hair, stroking a thumb over Isaac’s scalp. It’s their only point of contact. It’s so much like Goodneighbor, D stroking his hand, making him shiver. Isaac leans his head into it for a moment, and tries to imagine a wasteland without Deacon. Going back to Railroad HQ for missions and the latest secret codes, exchanging civil nods with one of the few people he’s ever felt really comfortable with. Pretending they’re not missing each other so bad it hurts.

He tries to imagine pretending his heart isn’t a little lighter every time he sees his partner. And he can’t. It would take a colder man by far to ignore what they have between them.

“We’re not okay,” Isaac says. He lifts his head, and waits until Deacon is looking at him. Holds his eyes and makes him keep looking. “You understand? We are _not_ okay. But I don’t have anyone else who can watch my back like you can, and I’m not patient enough to train up a replacement, so. I’m not going to make you leave.”

“Copy that, loud and clear,” Deacon says. He has the nerve to smile, though it’s shaky. “Thank you. And you won’t regret it, except maybe when I’m on dinner duty, since apparently you have issues with my cooking.”

“Yeah. It’s the worst.”

”Far as I’m concerned, you’re still my number one pal. I’m hoping you’ll give me a shot at earning your trust back.” Deacon drags his fingers through Isaac’s hair one last time before pulling away. Isaac regrets their absence almost immediately. “I just…like you, you know? A lot. The ‘Wealth’s a better place with our double act on the headlines.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, you’re still in the doghouse.” Isaac stands. His knees protest at the strain, but he doesn’t dare put pressure on Deacon’s knees to push himself upright. The medication might not have finished working.

“And here I was thinking I’d cry into your shoulder while we hugged it out,” Deacon says. “Are you seriously going to leave that to the Railroad therapists? They just don’t understand me, man. Not like you do.”

“The closest thing the Railroad has to therapists is Tinker Tom on Med-X. Here.” He offers Deacon his laser rifle without a thought. And by the time common sense catches up and calls him ten different kinds of idiot, it’s too late; Deacon takes the rifle.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don’t_ , Isaac thinks. He’s thoroughly unimpressed with himself. There were countless ways he could have made this whole mess go a lot easier for everyone involved, and he managed to miss out on every single fucking one. Forget going soft; he’s losing it completely. Losing his mind for a guy he can’t even have anymore. There’s not a submarine in existence that could dive deep enough to measure just how far he’s sunk.

“Can’t risk both of us down there with the Deathclaw,” he says coldly, reaching for his shotgun. “And if we open fire, it’ll just move into that side passage where we can’t reach. Those fuckers are smart. I should get me one of _them_ for a partner.”

“You could,” Deacon agrees. He comes to kneel by Isaac’s side near the edge, though he’s not as close as he would have been before. He’s careful to point the rifle anywhere that isn’t Isaac. “But would Jurassic Park down there come equipped with my excellent singing voice and extensive Broadway repertoire? I think not.” He sounds almost like himself again. In the space of Isaac looking away for five seconds, he’s managed to replace the sunglasses with a new pair.

Isaac tears his eyes away, stomping down on regret. He has a feeling it’ll be a long time coming before he sees Deacon’s eyes again. If he ever does.

“Anything more we need to talk about before I jump down there?” he asks. “Last chance. I’m giving you temporary immunity here, but it’s a one-time only deal. If I find out that you held something back…”

“What?” Deacon asks brightly. “You’ll hit me again? Because that solved _so_ many things.”

Isaac flinches; he can’t help himself. He lays the shotgun down at his side before he can drop it, turning to give Deacon his full attention. And Deacon’s face is expressionless, or as much of it as Isaac can make out. It’s like talking to a mask.

“Yeah, that…” Isaac trails off, struggling for words. “That was out of line.”

“D’ya think?”

“I’ve never.”

“Never what?” Deacon asks, and he’s still painfully cheerful about it, borderline mocking. “Ooh, is it game time? I’m really good at this one. Okay, ‘never have I ever lashed out in violent anger at someone who was doing his best to tell me the truth, even though it doesn’t come easy to him, and basically contradicts everything he stands for’. That one’s a doozy, pal, drink up.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Isaac says through gritted teeth. “I don’t do that to people on my side. Even when they annoy me. I never have. It won’t happen again, I swear.” He doesn’t know how he ended up being the one pleading for forgiveness. He doesn’t know. But he thinks about it, the blunt impact of his gun striking Deacon’s face, and it sickens him. “I won’t do that again,” he repeats.

For a moment, Deacon doesn’t say anything. He watches Isaac, maybe summing him up; maybe wondering if he believes the promise. Then he nods.

“Sure thing,” he says. “Fair warning though, if I see a repeat performance, we’re going to have serious consequences. As in, I will fall dramatically to the ground and cry until you feel like a total monster. And then when you come over to check I’m okay, that’s when I’ll make my move. I will eat your ankles, Isaac. Won’t be able to stop myself; I’ve never told anyone about the genetic experiments I got drafted into as a kid, mostly because the side effects are, like super awkward. But you should know that I’m at least .5 percent piranha. Ankles. Yum. Consider yourself warned.”

“Do they taste just like chicken?” Isaac snaps, but his heart isn’t really in it. He’s turning away to hide a smile Deacon’s already seen; he’s resigned to having shown his hand already, and if either of them has an ace tucked away, it sure as fuck isn’t him.

Suddenly in the mood for something a little more bone-shattering than a shotgun, Isaac reaches for his rucksack.

“Just so you know,” Deacon says.

“Hm?”

“I want…” Deacon hesitates. Isaac looks up from pulling a couple of grenades out of another side pocket.

“What?”

“Sure you want to know?”

“Uh, yeah,” Isaac snaps. “You’re my partner, we’ve agreed we’re both staying around. Yes, I want to know what you want. And I don’t read minds, _pal_ , so you’re just going to have to man up and tell me-”

“I wish I’d kissed you,” Deacon says, and Isaac feels himself stop breathing. “That night back in Goodneighbor. Wish I’d known it was going to be my last shot, so I could actually appreciate it properly, maybe give myself something good to think about the next time the world seems like an endless, shitty pile of terrible. There. That’s one for the truth jar. I wish I’d had five measly seconds to kiss you one last time before it had to end. I love your mouth.”

“There’s nothing special about it,” Isaac says blankly. It’s the only thing he can come up with.

Deacon shrugs. “It’s yours. You’re an atom bomb, baby; you touch people, and they carry bits of you around long after you wander off to go fuck up someone else’s day. You have this weird Isaac half-life thing going on, where you kiss me and then it’s all I can think about for weeks afterwards. That sucks, man. I’m just trying to do my job here, and you gotta go and nuke my concentration.”

“ _Isaac half life_?”

“Consider it a work in progress,” Deacon tells him. “Tune in next week for new and improved metaphors that you won’t appreciate because art is wasted on you.”

“Says the guy who thought a visit to Pickman’s gallery would teach me to be more cultured,” Isaac says. “That went so well. I wake up screaming on the regular, I’m so cultured. Are you going to help me kill that Deathclaw, or am I going in alone, because I’m okay with that.” His fingers curl around a grenade, ready. He’s so ready to be gone from here.

Deacon touches his shoulder, and Isaac almost leaps out of his skin. “Jesus, don’t do that.”

“You big baby. Yeah, I’m helping you blast that poor creature into bite-sized pieces that you’ll probably make me scrape up and sell to anyone gullible enough to believe it’s Brahmin. Just listen up for a sec, would you? I want to make sure we’re on the level here.” Deacon’s wearing a serious expression; he squeezes Isaac’s shoulder, and doesn’t let go.

“Talk fast,” Isaac says. “Some of us have bloodlust to feed.”

“You gotta understand this,” Deacon says, and he’s _intense_. His fingers dig almost deep enough to bruise. “I need to not have this talk more than once. Don’t ask me to put myself through a repeat performance, because this one’s bad enough. You and me, we’re going to have to dial it back a notch from now on. Or…a lot of notches. Let’s call it a square sixty-nine, for fairness’ sake. From now on, we’re hardcore platonic.”

This, at least, is not unexpected. Not something Isaac’s really had time to think about, but when he lets himself, it makes sense. Railroad first; that’s Deacon all over. And Isaac is nothing if not a walking safety risk for his people. He gets that. He’s never regretted what he is.

He tries to tell himself it’s for the best; Deacon kind of betrayed him. He shouldn’t want the guy after that. They should be done.

But it’s not that simple.

“Fine,” he makes himself say. “I’ll cancel our dinner date at the Dugout.”

“Aw, but that’s my favourite!”

“What, you thought this was going to be a clean break up?” Isaac asks. “Fuck off. I get the Dugout. You can have the Mega Surgery Center. We’re splitting Takahashi and his noodles. You sit at one end of the bench, I’ll sit at the other.”

“I knew you’d take this well,” Deacon says. He actually sighs; it’d be touching, if the whole thing wasn’t such a tragedy. “’Fraid this includes the little Goodneighbor meetings. My alter ego’s getting retired for good; I’ll find him a nice field, put him out to pasture. From now on, it’s pure, unadulterated Deacon-y nutritiousness for you. I’m a friend when you need one, a gun at your back, and I’ll always be fighting your corner for you. Just…not like before. I’m sorry. Can’t even begin to tell you how much. If that matters.”

It matters. A lot more than it should, more than Isaac knows what to do about; it matters.

He turns away, shrugging Deacon’s hand off his shoulder. “It’s fine. I’m heartbroken I missed the chance to have you come all over my face, but I’ll get over it.” Satisfied that he’s had the last word, he pulls the pin on his grenade. “Watch out; it’s about to get _fun_ in here.” He throws. Down below, the Deathclaw meets his eyes, and holds them. Then, the fireworks start.

Deacon hands him a replacement grenade before he can ask, and if their fingers brush, he barely notices.

They’re not okay. They will be, given time; Isaac doesn’t have enough friends to toss one away, and he’d miss the hell out of this one. He can almost believe they’d miss each other. With Deacon, it’s hard to tell, and harder still to forgive so soon.

_All’s fair in love and war,_ Isaac thinks bitterly. _Guess I’ll stick with what I’m good at_.

Shotgun in one hand, he pushes himself over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to work in a happy ending, but it just wasn't going to happen, and I wasn't going to force it. THAT BEING SAID. I'm thinking about doing a series with these two, with an overarching plot and different stories to fill different kink meme prompts. Does that seem like something people might be interested in?  
> (Let's be honest, I'll do it anyway. Sorry in advance.). Thank you for reading, and thanks for all the incredible comments, holy shit. You're all so nice, it just blows me away.  
> Anyone interested in what Isaac looks like can find some [terrible screencaps over here!](http://youreusingcoconuts.tumblr.com/post/139966264305/in-celebration-of-finishing-yet-another-stupidly)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Depeche Mode's [Policy of Truth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2VBmHOYpV8).


End file.
